THF 

JL    JL  &  JL*? 


I 

y34 


I  GEORGES  CLEMENCEAU 


THE  STRONGEST 

(LES  PLUS  FORT) 

BY 
GEORGES  CLEMENCEAU 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1919 


COPYRIGHT,   1919,   BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE   &   COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED,   INCLUDING  THAT  OF 

TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES, 

INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


THE  STRONGEST 


THE  STRONGEST 

CHAPTER  I 

HENRI  LEPASTRE,  Marquis  de  Puymau- 
fray,  led  the  great  rout  of  the  last  years  of 
the  Second  Empire  brilliantly.  His  duels, 
his  adventures  in  gallantry,  made  him  famous  at 
Longchamps,  in  the  chateaux,  at  the  theatres. 
They  were  very  jolly  days,  as  one  of  the  heroes  of  the 
occasion  said,  and  Henri  de  Puymaufray  was  at  the 
height  of  the  carnival  of  folly.  When  the  outraged 
virtue  of  the  sentimental  Germans  broke  up  the 
carnival  with  shell  fire  Henri  de  Puymaufray  went 
to  the  front  as  dashingly  as  to  a  rendezvous,  re- 
turned with  his  arm  in  a  sling,  and  refused  to  be 
consoled.  He  said  that  his  generation  had  done  too 
much  evil  to  take  pride  in  the  common  courage  of 
resisting  the  invader. 

"Of  course  I  am  a  hero,"  he  replied  whenever 
people  tried  to  flatter  him,  "but  I  am  a  hero  of  a 
defeat.  Ribbons,  and  pieces  in  the  paper,  and  the 
whole  parade  that  goes  with  them  will  not  console 
me  for  my  country's  loss — f or  which  we  are  to  blame. 
What  is  the  slash  of  a  bayonet  compared  with  other 
wounds  that  will  never  close  over?" 

3 


queer.  "The  war  struck  home 
to  him,"  said  his  friends.  And  since  he  was  ruined, 
in  any  case,  and  had  retired  to  what  was  left  of  his 
estate,  they  decided  that  he  had  gone  under,  and 
.  .  .  good-night! 

Henri  de  Puymaufray's  father — one-time  gentle- 
man in  waiting  to  Charles  X,  a  lover  of  white  wine 
and  pretty  country  girls — was  killed  in  a  hunting 
accident  before  he  knew  that  he  was  to  have  an  heir. 
His  mother,  nee  Pannetier,  a  stupid,  ugly  creature, 
daughter  of  an  army  contractor,  died  three  days 
after  the  birth  of  the  child.  She  had  perpetuated  the 
race — had  gilded  again,  for  a  day,  the  escutcheon 
sorely  soiled  by  time.  And,  having  accomplished 
the  full  duty  of  a  plebeian  millionaire,  she  took  her 
place  hierarchically  in  the  tombs  of  the  Puymauf  rays, 
who  forgave  the  misalliance.  A  seedy  old  uncle,  of 
the  noble  side,  was  named  guardian  and  then  tutor 
for  the  little  marquis.  He  sulked  at  the  coming  of 
the  child,  who  ruined  all  his  own  senile  hopes,  but 
he  established  himself  at  the  chateau  with  an  abb3 
from  the  bishopric  of  Nantes,  and  with  the  two 
Nanettes,  his  childhood  nurse  and  her  little  daughter. 

Fourteen  uneventful  years.  The  child  grew  up, 
loved  by  his  nurse,  whipped  by  the  abbe,  consoled 
by  his  little  foster  sister,  and  lectured  by  his  tutor. 

In  spite  of  his  appearance — the  crooked  nose,  the 
rolling,  yellow  eyes,  and  the  gold-headed  cane  he 


THE  STRONGEST  5 

was  always  twirling,  the  chevalier  de  Vertpree 
was  not  malicious.  Misery  and  pride  of  race  had 
made  him  stingy,  and  he  got  so  much  satisfaction 
from  his  miserly  administration  of  the  Pannetier 
millions  that  he  eventually  forgave  his  nephew  for  his 
untimely  birth.  He  even  grew  to  like  the  boy,  after 
his  fashion,  and  once,  between  two  games  of  bezique, 
conceived  the  idea  of  making  a  real  gentleman  of 
him.  He  discussed  the  project  seriously  with  the 
abbe.  • 

"Monsieur  le  Chevalier,"  the  abbe  would  say, 
"there's  only  one  thing  to  do.  We  will  make  our 
young  marquis  a  perfect  God-fearing  Christian — a 
man  who  will  serve  the  Church  and  do  his  duty  faith- 
fully to  those  whom  Heaven  has  placed  under  him, 
and  who  will  fight  with  fire  and  sword  all  those  dis- 
turbers that  flourish  in  our  unhappy  day,  when 
heresy  is  no  longer  a  crime." 

"Your  game  is  bad,  my  dear  abbe,  but  you  know 
what  you  are  saying.  Only,  while  you  take  care  of 
his  soul,  I  have  to  insure  the  honour  and  pride  of  a 
race  which,  before  God,  owes  fealty  to  the  Throne 
and  to  the  Altar.  You  will  form  the  spirit  of  the 
child;  I,  his  heart.  So  long  as  you  won't  fill  his 
mind  with  the  impious  trash  of  science,  I  will  take 
care  of  the  rest." 

Then  they  would  quarrel  about  tricks  and  count 
their  points  all  over  again. 

The  abbe  fell  in  with  his  partner's  ideas  perfectly. 


6  THE  STRONGEST 

He  knew  nothing  whatever  of  what  the  chevalier 
called  "the  filthy  mess  of  the  scientists."  He  knew 
as  much  Latin,  geography,  and  history  as  a  priest 
needed  to  know,  and  had  some  ideas  about  myth- 
ology. Whatever  inclination  toward  learning  the 
child  had  was  overcome  by  this  martinet,  and  Henri 
turned  willingly  toward  the  system  of  education 
preached  by  his  uncle. 

"Henri,  my  child,"  he  would  say,  fiddling  with  his 
useless  spectacles,  "you  are  the  Marquis  de  Puy- 
maufray.  Few  can  say  that  much.  Every  day  I 
am  increasing  your  property.  Your  first  duty  is  to 
preserve  it.  You  promise  me  to  preserve  it?" 

Henri,  deeply  moved,  promised  with  a  nod  of  his 
head. 

"Good.  When  you  have  the  chateau,  which  we 
will  restore  some  day,  and  the  farm  lands  and  the 
pastures,  you  will  not  have  to  worry  about  anything 
except  defending  yourself  against  the  mistakes  of 
your  time." 

The  devious  turns  of  this  speech  were  difficult  for 
Henri's  dozen  years,  but  at  "the  mistakes  of  your 
time"  he  pricked  up  his  ears.  He  knew  what  was 
coming;  questions  and  answers  and  a  long  litany  of 
the  things  that  no  one  need  know. 
^"The  men  of  to-day  want  to  know  every  thing. 
They  are  blasphemers,  they  are  revolutionists. 
They're  bandits.  Now,  Henri,  you  don't  like  ban- 
dits, do  you?" 


THE  STRONGEST  7 

Henri's  little  head  signified  an  energetic  No. 

"Very  good.  The  abbe  has  told  you  how  our 
first  parents  were  tempted  with  the  fruit  of  the  tree 
of  knowledge.  We  are  still  tempted.  We  must 
resist."  (Henri  made  the  appropriate  gesture  of 
resistance.)  "Good.  When  you  know  your  cate- 
chism you  know  all  you  can  know.  Do  you  need 
to  worry  about  books?" 

"Oh,  no,"  Henri  answered. 

"Or  bother  about  gas,  or  thermometers?  What 
do  you  care  for  steamboats  and  locomotives  and  all 
the  rest  of  those  noisy,  evil-smelling  machines?  So! 
Be  a  good  child;  serve  God;  love  your  neighbour;  be 
grateful  to  your  uncle,  who  is  making  you  a  Christian 
gentleman;  and  respectful  to  the  abbe,  who  is  teach- 
ing you  innocent  if  useless  things.  Then  I  will  be 
pleased  with  you.  Now  come  and  kiss  me." 

But  Henri  remained  at  a  respectful  distance  from 
both  the  abbe  and  his  uncle.  His  world  of  kindness 
and  love  was  in  Nanette,  the  mother  who  fondled 
him  and  brooded  over  him  and  adored  him. 

The  Breton  woman  is  sentimental,  fixed  and  whole- 
hearted in  her  devotion.  The  story  of  Nanette  is 
told  in  the  words:  she  loved.  She  loved  Henri  with 
the  perfect  passion  of  those  who  give  themselves 
without  getting,  with  the  joy  of  contributing  to 
some  indistinct  Puymaufray  of  the  future,  whose 
gestures  would  be  the  pride  of  history.  Her  own 
daughter  was  subordinate  to  this  enterprise,  and  the 


8  THE  STRONGEST 

humble  nurse  bent  all  before  her  by  the  tranquil 
energy  of  her  ideal.  The  chevalier  hesitated  to  cross 
her,  and  the  abbe  surrendered  at  once,  dazed  by  the 
authority  with  which  she  spoke  of  the  will  of  God. 

Until  Henri  was  fourteen  years  old  his  life  was 
happy  with  his  "sister"  Nanette,  with  the  farmers 
in  the  fields,  with  the  blacksmith  at  his  forge,  the 
shoemaker  at  work  on  his  wooden  shoes — all  of  them 
masters  of  the  secrets  of  earth.  The  universe  en- 
chanted him.  Then  the  abbe  persuaded  his  uncle 
that  four  years  with  the  Jesuits  at  Poitiers  was  indis- 
pensable to  the  education  of  a  gentleman.  The 
parting  from  the  two  Nanettes  was  cruel,  and  they 
consoled  each  other  only  with  pledges  of  eternal 
affection. 

The  good  Fathers  found  the  soul  of  Henri  quietly 
closed  against  them.  Li  the  depths  of  his  heart 
the  elder  Nanette  had  laid  the  treasure  of  which 
she  alone  held  the  key.  The  masters,  zealous 
enough,  gradually  lost  interest  in  a  pupil  who  would 
not  have  to  pass  examinations  and  left  Henri  to 
browse,  haphazard,  in  the  new  world  of  books.  He 
asked  questions,  learned  things,  and  acquired  a 
passable  culture. 

He  had  just  reached  his  eighteenth  year  when  his 
uncle  died.  The  day  after  the  funeral  a  family  coun- 
cil was  held  in  the  great  hall  of  the  chateau.  It 
turned  into  a  monologue  delivered  by  a  little,  painted 
old  lady  who  looked  like  a  crab-apple,  shook  her 


THE  STRONGEST  9 

long  black  mittens  with  an  air  of  authority,  and 
spoke  in  a  voice  like  a  broken  harpsichord. 

"Henri,  my  child,  we  are  assembled  to  fulfil  in 
every  respect  our  duties  toward  the  noble  house  of 
Puymaufray.  The  hour  has  come  to  make  a  grave 
decision.  It  is  time  for  you  to  know  that  your  family 
has  had  its  misfortunes  as  well  as  its  grandeur.  From 
the  day  when  one  of  your  ancestors  saved  the  life  of 
King  Philippe-Auguste,  according  to  an  oral  tradi- 
tion which  I  hereby  transmit  to  you,  all  your  forbears 
have  been  soldiers.  Why  was  it  necessary  for  one 
of  them  to  be  deaf  to  the  voice  of  honour  and  to 
soil  his  name  with  a  stain  I  would  gladly  wash  out 
with  my  own  blood?  I  cannot  give  my  blood.  It 
is  for  you  to  redeem  the  glory  of  the  house  of  Puy- 
maufray." 

Henri,  impressed  by  the  solemn  prologue,  deeply 
troubled  by  this  unexpected  revelation  of  a  stain 
on  his  name,  listened  without  understanding.  The 
word  "redeem"  gave  him  a  clue.  He  had  heard  his 
uncle  and  the  abbe  discuss  the  fortune  inherited 
through  the  Pannetiers.  The  abbe  had  denounced 
these  rapidly  accumulated  millions  as  tainted  money, 
gained  in  the  service  of  the  usurper  or  stolen  from 
the  Church.  He  had  heard  his  uncle  say  that  "  some 
day  Henri  will  redeem  it  ...  or  won't."  The 
words  suddenly  came  to  life  in  his  memory. 

"Aunt  Des  Tremblayes,"  he  cried,  impetuously, 
flushing  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  "you  are  right.  We 


10  THE  STRONGEST 

must  make  restitution.  If  there  is  anything  against 
my  grandfather  Pannetier  I  do  not  want  his  money. 
If  any  of  the  rest  was  stolen  money  I  refuse  to  take 
it." 

The  little  old  lady  jumped  from  her  chair  as  if 
stung.  "What  is  this  madness,  nephew,  and  what 
are  you  talking  about?  However  sad  your  father's 
marriage  was,  it  was  justified  by  the  necessity  for 
restoring  the  Puymaufrays  to  their  proper  station  in 
society.  I  do  not  know  what  fables  have  been  told 
you  about  M.  Pannetier  (de  Nogent)  whom  I  knew 
in  his  old  age,  a  God-fearing  man.  What  I  alluded 
to  was  the  deplorable  error  of  your  paternal  ancestor, 
Jean  de  Puymaufray,  who  lived  here,  without  protest, 
all  through  the  execrable  revolution,  giving  the  ap- 
pearance of  justice  to  the  assassination  of  the  King, 
the  persecutions  of  the  priests,  the  bloody  violence 
against  the  members  of  his  own  order." 

Henri  breathed  again. 

"Now  you  know  all.  Without  question  you  share 
my  indignation.  You  cannot  serve  the  Throne 
while  the  King  of  France  is  in  exile.  But  the  Holy 
See  is  safe.  Rally  to  it.  We  have  anticipated  your 
desires.  You  are  accepted  as  a  Zouave.  Here  are 
your  letters  of  introduction  and  a  draft  on  the  bank. 
You  will  start  to-morrow." 

Henri  saw  only  one  thing:  no  more  Jesuits  at 
Poitiers.  Youth — and  the  unknown — tempted  him. 

"I  am  ready,"  he  said,  simply. 


THE  STRONGEST  11 

A  flattering  murmur  greeted  his  words. 

The  next  day  he  was  en  route,  lightheartedly  leav- 
ing the  Nanettes  one  of  whom  he  was  never  to  see 
again. 

Because  he  lacked  sufficient  preparation  to  under- 
stand it,  Rome  did  not  affect  him.  What  he  knew  of 
antiquity  seemed  out  of  place  among  those  old  yellow 
stones  whose  meaning  and  history  escaped  him.  He 
understood  that  something  colossal  had  existed  there, 
an  enormously  developed  will-to-rule  to  which  the 
Church  was  the  natural  heir.  Religion  would  un- 
doubtedly have  appeared  nobler  to  him  if  he  had  not 
seen  the  Vatican  so  close.  All  the  gods  have  need  of 
distance.  Besides  Pius  IX,  the  sacred  idol  of  distant 
crowds,  Mgr.  de  Merode,  prelate  and  minister  of  war — 
trying  out  a  new  litter  in  the  Zouaves'  camp,  hanging 
his  cassock  on  the  pack  saddle  and  travelling  around 
on  a  mule  like  a  wounded  man — evoked  sentiments 
quite  different  from  those  of  the  faithful  kneeling  for 
the  pontifical  blessing. 

The  Zouave  society  was  mixed.  In  addition  to  a 
crowd  of  bullies  from  every  country  there  were 
Irishmen,  Canadians,  Belgians,  brought  to  camp  by 
a  sincere  exaltation  for  the  faith.  Occasionally 
they  had  a  scrap.  Between  times  they  kept  them- 
selves amused.  The  beautiful  Roman  girls  were  not 
indifferent  to  the  French. 

The  young  man  was  snatched  from  his  pleasures 
by  the  letter  which  informed  him  of  the  death  of 


12  THE  STRONGEST 

Nanette.  With  her  last  words  she  commanded  her 
daughter  to  care  for  M.  Henri,  to  watch  over  and 
protect  him.  The  girl  gave  her  promise,  tearfully. 

Henri  wept  for  his  foster  mother.  Wearied,  scep- 
tical, disillusioned,  he  stayed  on  until  his  four  years 
were  over  and  then  came  up  to  the  imperial  festivities 
of  Paris. 

What  could  he  do  in  Paris  except  what  the  gay 
youth  of  his  time  were  doing  ?  In  six  years  the  wealth 
of  the  Pannetiers  was  redeemed,  as  the  abbe  had 
advised;  or,  rather,  it  was  restored  to  the  nation, 
not  by  pious  gifts,  but  with  the  aid  of  certain  ladies 
of  the  theatres,  jockeys,  shopkeepers,  moneylenders, 
whose  useful  function  it  is  to  prevent  the  excessive 
accumulation  of  capital. 

This  act  of  social  levelling  was  the  inevitable  result 
of  a  life  to  which  all  the  channels  of  useful  activity 
were  closed.  To  live  for  his  money  seemed  to  Puy- 
maufray  to  be  the  stupidest  thing  in  the  world.  And 
for  what  employment  had  he  been  prepared?  He 
threw  himself  head  first  into  the  adventure  of  vulgar 
pleasures.  He  gained  no  very  high  opinion  of  him- 
self, but  he  consoled  himself  more  or  less  by  his  scorn 
for  his  fellow  men  and  women.  He  mortgaged  and 
then  sold  his  estates,  without  regret. 

He  was  well-nigh  ruined  and  was  beginning  to  cast 
discreet  glances  at  French  and  American  heiresses 
when,  in  the  midst  of  his  bitterest  vituperations  of 
women,  he  was  caught  in  a  tempest  of  passion  which 


THE  STRONGEST  13 

uprooted  him  and  stamped  upon  him,  and,  by  force 
of  suffering,  brought  forth  the  man  whom  education 
and  the  dead  weight  of  circumstance  had  plunged 
deep  into  the  recesses  of  his  soul,  unseen  by  himself. 

On  the  pelouse  at  Longchamps,  on  the  day  of  the 
Grand  Prix,  Henri  had  met  an  old  friend,  Dominic 
Harle  of  Poitiers,  who,  after  a  brilliant  career  at 
school,  was  building  an  important  paper  factory  at 
Radegonde,  near  the  Puymaufray  estate. 

The  two  men  had  never  shown  any  lively  interest 
in  each  other.  Harle  had  been  a  grind,  a  dull,  stupid 
soul,  with  a  marvellous  head  for  t  mathematics,  the 
pride  of  the  good  Fathers,  while  the  other,  rebellious 
against  the  effort  of  learning,  had  gapingly  followed 
the  flies  up  the  wall,  dreaming,  in  his  prison,  of  rustic 
pleasures  with  Nanette  and  the  abbe.  The  proxim- 
ity of  the  chateau  and  the  factory  would  naturally 
have  brought  together  the  idle  master  of  the  one, 
careless  of  the  wealth  he  had  flung  away,  and  the 
hard-working,  practical  master  of  the  other,  for  whom 
the  name  of  Puymaufray  seemed  to  possess  excep- 
tional importance. 

So  far  from  each  other  at  first,  the  two  men  sud- 
denly became  friends  by  a  mutual  feeling  that  their 
destinies  were  joined,  and  rapidly  flung  a  bridge  of 
reminiscences  between  the  dark  paths  of  Poitiers 
and  the  brilliant  tumult  of  Longchamps.  A  distant 
cousin  of  Harle's,  canon  of  Tours  and  in  good  stand- 
ing in  the  archbishopric,  had  found  the  necessary 


14  THE  STRONGEST 

capital  for  him.  The  Jesuit  Fathers,  who  could  not 
lose  sight  of  so  promising  a  pupil,  had  married  him 
prosperously,  as  he  briefly  said. 

"Unfortunately,"  he  concluded,  "the  Fathers 
could  not  have  foreseen  the  failure  of  the  Catholic 
Bank  of  Canada,  brought  about  by  the  fraudulent 
tricks  of  the  London  and  Paris  Jews,  and  I  only 
laid  my  hands  once  on  the  100,000  francs  which  I  was 
supposed  to  get  every  year.  My  father-in-law  died 
of  grief  after  some  rather  painful  scenes  between  us; 
my  wife  has  become  sulky,  peevish,  unbearable;  and 
I  am  cheated.  Life  isn't  always  amusing  at  Rade- 
gonde,  and  that's  why  I  sometimes  run  up  to  Paris 
to  forget  my  work  and  my  burdens." 

With  the  help  of  the  Marquis,  and  in  gay  company, 
Dominic  easily  forgot  his  troubles  that  day.  The 
blas6  Parisian,  weary  of  Paris,  got  some  amusement 
from  the  fresh  debauchery  of  the  provincial  who  had 
broken  loose.  It  was  not  enough,  however,  to  shake 
off  his  growing  horror  of  the  unvarying  joys  in  the 
emptiness  where  his  life  was  spent.  The  eternal 
beginning  over  again,  at  the  same  times,  the  same 
places,  with  the  same  conventional  people,  slaves  to 
the  same  idols  of  pleasure,  became  odious  to  him. 
He  was  by  nature  capable  of  other  pleasures  but  in- 
capable of  making  the  effort.  The  Englishman,  in 
such  conditions,  travels  or  kills  himself  for  new  sensa- 
tions. The  German  gets  drunk  on  beer  and  to- 
bacco. The  Frenchman,  a  brilliant,  empty  shell, 


THE  STRONGEST  15 

remains  passive,  the  plaything  of  the  elements,  in  the 
inertia  of  slow  dissolution.  A  sad  spectacle,  this 
Paris  crowd  of  brilliant  surfaces  without  a  deeper 
life,  tossed  haphazard,  shaken  with  false  movements 
which  give  the  illusion  of  lif  e.  Worn-out  sensations, 
tarnished  sentiments,  dead  ideas:  the  triumph  of 
appearances,  the  prestige  of  Lies. 

Some  time  later  Henri  was  calling  on  the  notary  at 
Radegonde  in  order  to  sign  some  bills  of  sale  and 
invited  himself  to  lunch  with  the  manufacturer. 
Mme.  Harle  astonished  him,  less  by  the  cold  regu- 
larity of  her  features  than  by  her  haughty  melan- 
choly, as  of  royalty  dethroned.  Did  her  husband 
say  sulky,  peevish?  Nothing  of  the  sort.  But  it 
was  clear  that  the  catastrophe  had  left  the  traces  of 
an  irreparable  unhappiness  on  this  wounded  soul. 

However  cruel  it  may  be,  the  loss  of  money  ccanot 
draw  young  lips  into  so  bitter  a  line.  Regret  for  a 
loved  father  would  have  caused  more  abandon,  and 
not  these  suppressed  tremors  of  revolt.  The  shaken, 
wounded  voice  echoed  sorrow.  And  yet  the  sweet 
courtesy  of  her  greeting,  the  strained  but  affable 
smile,  gave  gentleness  and  harmony  to  the  authority 
of  her  dominant  grace.  Slender,  supple,  beautiful 
with  a  lifeless  beauty,  her  head  high  and  imperious 
under  its  crown  of  ash-coloured  hair,  Claire  Harle 
baffled  the  charmed  gaze  by  her  simple  air  of  one  who 
has  been  beaten.  What  could  be  read  in  the  trans-, 


16  THE  STRONGEST 

parent  depths  of  those  green  eyes  flecked  with  gold? 
Puymaufray's  searchings  were  lost  in  the  impene- 
trable mirror  that  took  and  held  his  gaze. 

The  conversation  was  dull,  embarrassed.  The 
Parisian  found  himself  awkward,  lacking  dash  and 
wit.  It  was  the  provincial,  still  warm  with  his  ex- 
periences of  Paris,  who  was  eloquent  and  gay.  He 
made  no  effort  to  conceal  the  fact  that  he  had  but  one 
interest  in  life,  his  factory,  which  was  beginning  to 
prosper.  He  spoke  of  his  great  plans  for  the  future. 
And  then,  after  a  silence: 

"  All  that  would  be  ready  now  if  it  weren't  for  ... 
those  who  crippled  me  at  one  blow." 

Mme.  Harle  made  no  gesture  of  surprise  at  this 
brutal  reminder  of  her  father's  misfortunes.  A 
flash  of  red  passed  over  her  pale  face  and  presently 
she  left  the  room  as  if  to  give  some  instructions,  and 
did  not  return. 

"It's  always  this  way,"  cried  Dominic.  "I  wish 
someone  would  tell  me  which  of  us  two  is  the  sufferer. 
How  can  my  mind  be  free  for  my  work  when  I'm 
always  being  harried  by  the  provocations  of  a  ner- 
vous woman?" 

"But  aren't  you  provoking  her  deliberately  and 
uselessly?"  asked  Henri,  timidly. 

"That's  exactly  what  she  says.  But  you  can 
understand  me.  What  did  I  want  from  marriage? 
What  everyone  wants,  eh? — to  better  myself  per- 
sonally. And  what  did  I  get?  I'm  worse  off,  be- 


THE  STRONGEST  17 

cause  of  these  eternal  fetters  on  my  work.  I  admit 
that  that  isn't  entirely  my  wife's  fault,  and  I  have  too 
much  breeding  to  reproach  her  continually  for  her 
father's  ruin  and  the  hardly  honourable  failure  to  live 
up  to  agreements  signed  before  a  notary.  But  after 
all,  what  am  I  but  the  commander  of  an  industrial 
army,  risking  my  life  and  my  honour  on  the  field  of 
combat?  Here  I  am  in  the  thick  of  it,  compelled  to 
make  quick  decisions,  to  do  things  irrevocably.  How 
can  I  remain  master  of  my  faculties  and  calm  my 
jumpy  nerves  when,  right  at  the  crisis,  the  decisive 
forces  slip  away  from  their  appointed  place?  If 
I  could  suppress  a  cry,  a  rough  gesture,  at  that  mo- 
ment, I  would  be  an  angel  perhaps,  but  not  the  cap- 
tain of  industry  I  am  proud  to  be." 

Puymaufray  said  nothing.  He  looked  at  this 
violent  fighter,  implacably  obsessed  by  his  purpose, 
and  his  brutality,  so  cruel  and  shocking  in  the  en- 
chanting light  of  a  pair  of  green  eyes,  seemed  explain- 
able if  not  excusable. 

Black  hair  en  brosse,  a  stiff  beard,  outlining  the 
energetic,  harsh  features,  jerky  gestures,  a  vibrant 
voice,  all  indicated  the  master  of  the  fierce  poetry  of 
action.  His  wife,  thought  Henri,  is  of  another  world 
of  sensations  and  suggestions;  that  is  the  misfortune. 

"No  doubt  there's  your  side,"  he  hazarded, 
timidly,  "but  there  is  also  your  wife's.  She  has  the 
right  to  a  full  development  of  her  own  life,  just  as 
you  have." 


18  THE  STRONGEST 

"My  wife?  What  do  you  imagine  I  can  get  from 
her?  I  wanted  something  secure  to  rest  upon:  the 
dowry  is  gone.  Nothing  remains  but  the  burden  of 
a  useless,  perturbing  woman,  with  the  misfortune 
of  having  missed  her  duty  in  life,  resenting  faults 
which  she  attributes  to  me  in  order  to  console  herself 
a  little  for  the  lack  of  foresight  of  her  own  people." 

"You  have  your  home." 

"Yes.  That's  what  people  say.  Bachelors. 
Talk  to  me  about  home.  Here.  Take  a  look  at 
that  huge  smokestack  out  there.  That's  my 
home." 

The  next  day  Henri  let  Nanette  persuade  him  that 
his  presence  at  Puymauf ray  was  necessary  for  super- 
vising urgent  repairs  to  the  chateau.  Soon  he  was 
treading  the  path  to  Radegonde  every  day.  Per- 
haps paper-making  interested  him;  perhaps  it  was 
Claire  Harle  who,  after  a  pretence  at  indifference, 
slowly  relented  and,  in  the  end,  yielded  to  the  charm 
of  his  sincerely  surrendered  heart.  He  was  attracted 
by  her  and  neither  desired  nor  dreamed  of  anything 
more.  He  was  driven  out  of  his  usual  self,  happy  in 
a  new  ecstasy,  and,  forgetting  all  his  arts  of  seduction, 
became  strong  by  virtue  of  truth  alone. 

In  the  hum  of  the  factory  or  the  silence  of  the  fields 
Claire  let  herself  be  drawn  into  long  talks.  At  first 
Dominic  tried  to  share  their  walks,  but  the  factory 
called  him.  Moreover,  the  tension  of  these  two 
spirits,  drawn  toward  each  other,  seeking  each  other 


THE  STRONGEST  19 

by  obscure  and  devious  ways,  made  it  tiresome  for 
him  to  follow. 

"Who  would  have  thought  that  Paris  would  make 
you  a  poet  of  the  fields?"  he  would  say  to  Henri. 
"That's  the  punishment  for  idleness.  Instead  of 
going  into  ecstasies  over  an  oak  tree,  get  into  the 
stream  of  action  in  the  world,  turn  back  your  cuffs, 
make  me  a  roll  of  paper  out  of  this  tree,  bring  up  your 
ignorant  workers  to  some  conception  of  industry, 
increase  the  substance  of  mortal  man:  these  are 
worth  more  than  plain  living  and  high  thinking." 

"It's  true  I've  stupidly  wasted  my  life,"  replied 
Henri.  "It  might  have  been  good  and  useful.  Only, 
the  sort  of  thing  you  call  action  isn't  the  only  action. 
Your  paper  isn't  worth  anything  except  for  the  ideas 
which  the  spirit  of  man  prints  on  it.  You  are  an 
agent,  a  middleman,  not  a  master.  It's  the  ecstasy 
of  the  world,  at  which  you  are  laughing,  which  ex- 
plains you  and  justifies  you.  From  it  come,  day  by 
day,  the  sensations  that  move  men,  and  the  maker 
of  paper  even — you  have  confessed  it — is  moved  by 
a  feeling  for  art." 

"And  is  it  from  the  great  life  of  Paris,  as  M.  HarlS 
calls  it,  that  you  bring  back  this  philosophy?" 

"No,  madame.  I  found  it  here — too  late.  I 
lived  stupidly  with  the  empty  gestures  of  my  class, 
the  sad  remnants  of  a  vanished  glory.  I  am  forty 
years  old.  Whatever  is  left  of  my  strength  is  useless 
for  any  purpose.  I  have  lost  my  fortune  and  my 


20  THE  STRONGEST 

youth,  and  here  I  am,  a  peasant,  just  where  I  began. 
But  at  least  I  know  the  things  I  could  not  do." 

He  was  thinking  his  thoughts  out  for  the  first 
time.  A  new  soul  was  being  born  in  him  and  ex- 
pressed itself  in  changed  accents,  in  new  gestures, 
which  gave  the  young  woman  the  delicious  pleasure 
of  recognizing  something  she  was  herself  creating. 

Rapidly  her  instinctive  defence  against  him  broke 
down.  She  gave  him  her  confidence.  She  told  him 
of  her  care-free  youth  in  a  convent,  where  complete 
ignorance  of  the  world  was  systematically  and  ob- 
stinately worked  out;  of  her  invalid  mother  and 
her  father,  engrossed  in  business;  of  the  surprise 
of  her  marriage  at  nineteen  and  her  acceptance  of 
it  with  the  assurance  that  all  human  happiness  lay 
therein. 

"Really,"  she  asked,  "what  more  could  our  par- 
ents do  for  us  if  they  were  our  bitterest  enemies? 
When  I  think  of  the  lies  at  school  and  at  home, 
falsifying  our  souls  and  corrupting  our  hearts,  I  won- 
der that  we  have  any  sincerity  and  honesty  left. 
Tell  me,  where  are  the  beautiful  things  we  are 
taught  about  the  family  and  society?  It  seems  we 
are  to  discover  the  Higher  Will  in  them.  Then  why 
do  I  see,  instead  of  the  advertised  beauties,  nothing 
but  a  battlefield  in  which  the  desires  of  the  strongest 
triumph?  I  know  that  everyone  says  we  are  to  be 
rewarded  in  heaven.  Then  show  me  those  who  are 
really  trying  to  live  up  to  that  belief." 


THE  STRONGEST  21 

"I  will  not  try.  I  will  only  tell  you  that  the  evil 
world  of  which  you  are  the  victim  leaves  you  a  refuge 
in  yourself.  Brutality  overwhelms  you.  But  isn't 
it  your  revenge  to  feel  within  yourself  a  power 
stronger  than  what  struck  you  down?  And  if  it  is 
your  lot  to  meet  a  heart  hi  which  yours  can  expand, 
if  your  strength  doubles  itself  in  its  capacity  for  living, 
do  you  not  believe  that  out  of  your  unhappiness  a 
joy  on  earth  can  come  which  will  be  greater  than  the 
ecstasies  of  heaven?" 

"Yes.  That  is  how  I  thought  about  marriage. 
But  society  had  other  views.  My  money  and  I  were 
riveted  to  each  other.  There  was  a  magnetic  attrac- 
tion between  my  money  and  M.  Harle's  money. 
That  was  enough.  I  had  to  follow.  The  mis- 
fortune is  that  one  day  the  money  disappeared  and 
the  woman  remained,  face  to  face  with  the  irritable 
master  you  know.  After  a  year  of  frivolity  my  hus- 
band suddenly  dropped  the  mask.  There  was  no 
further  need  for  finesse.  His  violence  broke  out 
into  gross  reproaches  against  my  father,  who  died 
of  despair.  That  was  life's  beginning  for  me  .  .  . 
at  twenty.  I  am  twenty-five  now.  I  am  older  than 
you  are." 

"No.  No.  Because  I  find  you  in  the  full  revolt 
of  youth.  And  are  you  sure  that  all  this  misfortune 
may  not  be  of  benefit  to  you?  Without  it  you  would 
have  continued  your  life  of  worldly  pleasures. 
What  would  it  have  done  to  you?  I  could  show  you 


22  THE  STRONGEST 

what  it  has  done  to  others.  Suffering  has  given  you 
a  soul." 

"And  what  is  it  to  me?  I  suffer  more,  that's  all. 
You  say  I  am  in  revolt.  It  is  only  talk.  I  am  hope- 
less, and  the  current  carries  me " 

"Who  knows?  Perhaps  your  trials  are  nearing 
'their  end." 

"Yes,  I  understand.  You  are  here.  It  is  much 
for  me  to  be  able  to  speak  as  I  have  just  spoken. 
But  you  know  well  that  there  is  nothing  that  can 
come  of  it.  I  am  not  made  for  falsehood,  and  you 
can  only  offer  me  a  change  of  miseries." 

Ever  their  thoughts  returned,  to  break  against  the 
invincible  obstacle.  Henri  would  say  to  himself: 
"It  is  impossible;  it  can  never  be."J 

And  Claire  thought:  "The  world,  which  struck 
me  down  with  the  first  blow,  doesn't  want  to  see  me 
raise  myself  again."  And  then  in  the  depths  of  her 
heart  a  voice  murmured :  "  Why  not  ? ' ' 

Alas !  she  could  not  tell  everything.  She  could  not 
confess  the  bitterest  torture,  her  horror  of  infidelity, 
born  of  sickening  experience,  of  suffering,  which 
shamed  her  even  while  she  hated  it. 

Henri  knew  enough.  He  had  become  timid,  fear- 
ful of  breaking  into  the  consolation  which  came 
to  him  merely  through  living.  He  had  said  before: 
"The  most  beautiful  moment  of  love  is  when  I 
climb  the  stairs."  Was  that  his  love  now?  By  what 
name  could  he  call  this  impetuous  burst  of  feeling 


THE  STRONGEST  23 

which  tortured  him  until  the  full  satisfaction  of  their 
meeting?  He  loved  and  expected  nothing  beyond 
the  delight  of  his  love.  Expecting  nothing,  he  foresaw 
no  danger,  and  both  of  them  were  lured  by  their  se- 
curity until  their  hearts  had  yielded  completely. 

Unconsciously  they  let  themselves  talk  of  friend- 
ship, of  love — unconstrained,  incapable,  undesirous 
of  holding  themselves  in  check.  Each  in  the  bottom 
of  the  soul  had  decided  that  they  could  live  chastely 
near  each  other,  united  by  a  sublime  love.  Thus 
they  pledged  each  other  one  night;  softly,  proud  of 
their  ecstatic  sufferings,  drunk  with  their  heavenly 
flight.  They  swore,  their  hands  clasped,  their  eyes 
lost.  And  when  they  awoke  from  their  trance,  Na- 
ture had  reasserted  her  rights.  They  were  no  longer 
mystic  lovers,  but  man  and  wife. 

They  were  not  frightened;  they  were  justified  by 
the  inevitable.  From  that  moment  they  neither 
asked  nor  promised,  abandoning  themselves  to  Fate, 
which  seemed  to  shelter  them  under  her  wing.  Was 
happiness  that  magic  talisman  of  Oriental  tales  which 
rendered  the  possessor  invisible?  The  unhappy 
console  themselves  by  showing  their  miseries.  But 
supreme  felicity  shuns  display,  indifferent  to  the 
indifferent  world.  Only  the  social  Law  has  fixed 
the  rigid  forms  under  which  happiness  may  be  en- 
joyed. 

In  their  delirium,  Henri  and  Claire  forgot  the  law. 
At  first  the  question  of  breaking  the  veil  of  hypoc- 


24  THE  STRONGEST 

risy  and  of  belonging  openly  to  each  other  did  not 
occur.  Dominic  was  wholly  absorbed  in  his  work. 
His  wife's  indifference  calmed  him;  he  sensed  a 
vague  desire  for  reconciliation  and  ascribed  it  to  the 
influence  of  his  friend,  whom  he  was  glad  to  see 
permanently  settled  at  Puymaufray.  He  himself 
was  too  busy  with  new  developments  in  the  factory, 
making  up  what  he  had  lost  through  the  failure  of 
his  father-in-law.  Occasional  trips  to  Paris  were  his 
only  diversion. 

He  had  come  home  from  one  of  these  trips  when 
the  family  physician,  Dr.  Archambaud,  took  him 
aside  and  said: 

"My  dear  fellow,  I  have  good  news  for  you.  Ac- 
cording to  all  symptoms,  your  wife  is  bearing  a  child. 
I  haven't  told  her  so  outright,  yet,  because  I  wanted 
to  leave  you  the  pleasure  of  confirming  her  hopes. 
Congratulations . ' ' 

The  thought  had  never  occurred  to  Dominic,  who 
cried  out,  "It's  impossible,  doctor." 

"Excuse  me.  It  must  be  possible,  because  it  is 
true." 

"And  I  say  No.    Wait " 

He  tried  to  recall  the  time  when  he  found  himself 
before  a  certain  closed  door  which  would  not  open 
to  his  entreaties  and  his  threats.  At  last  he  con- 
ceded: 

"Oh,  well,  if  it's  so,  it's  so."  And  he  rushed  into 
his  wife's  room  to  congratulate  her. 


THE  STRONGEST  25 

When,  later,  Claire  and  the  doctor  were  alone,  the 
doctor  suddenly  saw  what  had  escaped  him  before. 
When  Claire  burst  into  tears,  he  said:  "Do  not 
cry.  I  understand  my  mistake.  Trust  me.  I  will 
arrange  everything." 

Dazed  by  the  event,  she  was  not  surprised.  "Go 
to  Puymaufray,"  she  murmured.  "Tell  Henri 
that  I  didn't  know.  I  thought  my  fears  were  ground- 
less. Now,  what  can  I  do?  Nothing  can  be 
changed.  Our  child  must  be  born  under  this  roof. 
Henri  must  be  generous,  compassionate,  and  resigned 
to  the  inevitable." 

Archambaud  kept  his  word.  Puymaufray  was 
constrained  to  submit,  for  Claire's  life. was  at  stake. 
The  doctor  succeeded  in  deceiving  Harle,  and  when 
the  child  was  born  she  was  accepted  without  ques- 
tion. Henri  de  Puymaufray  took  the  child  to  the 
font  where  she  was  registered  as  the  daughter  of 
Dominic  Harle  and  Claire  Mornand,  his  wife. 

Harle  was  in  the  fulness  of  his  self-development 
and  was  devoting  his  soul  and  his  will  to  the  business 
of  production.  He  would  have  been  proud  to  have 
an  heir  for  his  dynasty;  now  his  hopes  went  out  to 
the  son-in-law  he  would  have.  Henri,  a  failure, 
Claire  powerless,  were  far  away  from  him. 

However,  a  new  life  took  possession  of  the  lovers, 
who  were  belittled  by  falsehood,  but  made  great  by 
the  child.  With  their  renascent  life  came  love. 
They  had  no  thought  except  to  live  by  and  with  each 


26  THE  STRONGEST 

pther.  But  the  most  beautiful  sentiments  must  be 
translated  into  action,  into  everyday  movements, 
and  must  be  realized  by  activity  in  full  daylight. 
The  legal  setting  for  love — which  can  serve  to  con- 
ceal every  shade  of  emotion,  from  indifference  to 
hate,  leaving  love  aside — has  at  least  the  advantage 
that  it  gives  both  parties  the  attitude  of  apparent 
frankness.  Lacking  that,  Claire  and  Henri  had 
given  themselves  to  each  other  too  completely  not  to 
feel  wounded  by  the  brutal  lie.  Man  resigns  himself 
to  these  constraints  more  easily  than  woman.  What 
could  Puymaufray  do  as  he  dreamed  in  the  desolate 
solitude  of  his  hearth  while  she  whom  he  called  his 
wife  watched  over  the  crib  of  little  Claudia?  She 
sought  the  absent  husband,  encountered  the  eyes  of 
the  other  one,  the  usurper  who  was  also  a  victim, 
and  whose  every  movement  toward  the  child  was 
false.  But  Henri  suffered,  humiliated  as  by  an  evil 
act,  an  evil  which  he  did  and  which  fell  back  upon 
him. 

Claire  at  least  was  absorbed  by  her  duty  as  a 
mother,  and  suffered  above  all  by  the  sacrifice  which 
she  imposed  on  him  whose  love  saved  her  from  her- 
self. Sorrow  and  joy  in  one,  love  dominates  all  with 
its  sovereign  power,  greater  in  suffering  than  in  its 
ecstasy. 

When  their  first  dizziness  had  passed  they  were 
both  astonished  to  find  in  themselves  a  power  greater 
than  love.  "How  small  a  thing  was  my  love," 


THE  STRONGEST  27 

said  Claire,  "when  I  gave  myself  to  you.  I  was  only 
living  for  myself,  and  I  asked  nothing  of  you  except 
to  forget  my  misfortunes.  That  was  yesterday  and 
now  it  appears  so  far  away.  In  these  few  months 
how  my  whole  being  has  been  renewed  by  your 
generosity." 

"And  what  shall  I  say — I  who,  in  saving  you, 
first  found  out  how  to  salvage  my  wasted  life?  I 
gave  you  my  hand,  but  it  was  you  who  drew  me  from 
the  abyss,"  said  Henri. 

"Why,  say  that  from  our  two  defeated  lives  we 
have  created  a  power  for  victory.  "What  was  I? 
A  wreck  lost  in  common  wreckage  as  you  were  lost  in 
vulgar  catastrophes.  I  owe  it  to  you  that  I  have 
weathered  the  storm." 

"And  I,  I  owe  it  to  you  that  I  am  alive  again. 
The  world,  which  struck  you  down  at  the  first  en- 
counter, corrupted  me  until  all  my  power  of  reaction 
was  lost,  and  then  came  your  eyes  and  I  was  saved. 
And  I  see  and  marvel  at  what  was  hidden  from  me: 
the  misery  of  mankind  and  the  sovereign  solace  of 
love.  I  am  conscious  of  the  strength  you  have 
given  me,  and  my  love  is  more  beautiful  than  the 
selfish  joy  of  living.  It  will  somehow  give  back  to 
you  and  to  our  child  something  of  the  soul  which 
you  have  given  to  me,  so  that  some  of  your  gentle- 
ness may  come  to  those  who  suffer  on  earth." 

"My  friend,"  replied  Claire,  "what  I  gave  you 
was  already  yours.  Does  the  spark  come  from  the 


28  THE  STRONGEST 

flint  or  from  the  steel?  From  the  encounter.  The 
encounter  is  the  miracle.  The  miracle  is  perhaps 
greater  if  it  is  the  eternal  energy  scattered  in  the 
world  which  concentrates  itself  in  us  and  by  the 
flash  of  the  infinite  ecstasy  which  leaps  from  our 
souls  make  us  divine  for  a  day." 

"I  knew  well  enough  it  was  a  miracle  when  I  lost 
myself  in  your  eyes.  I  saw  mysterious  lights  flicker- 
ing there.  And  then  a  flame  burst  out  and  shone 
and  dazzled,  and  I  knew  that  an  unheard-of  thing 
was  coming  to  pass." 

"The  flint  and  the  steel,  I  tell  you.  Two  sepa- 
rate lives  suddenly  fused  to  appease  our  mortal  mis- 
fortune by  the  inexhaustible  felicity  of  love.  What 
a  wager  against  Fate!  Can  we  dare  to  say  that  the 
miracle  would  have  come  to  pass  that  you  would 
have  understood  me  and  loved  me  if  you  had  met  me 
before  I  was  tried  by  my  sorrows  and  you  deceived 
by  your  joys?  And  do  you  think  that  I  would 
freely  have  chosen  you  when  I  came  from  the  con- 
vent?— and  even  if  I  had  done  it,  would  I  have  been 
the  woman  I  ought  to  be  for  you  if  I  had  not  suf- 
fered?" 

"And  yet,"  ventured  Henri,  "in  spite  of  every- 
thing I  am  afraid.  We  have  no  remorse  for  the 
present  nor  jealousy  of  the  past.  But  don't  you  feel 
as  if  there  hung  over  us  some  fatality  in  the  future?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  sighed  Claire.  "I  thought  I  was 
dead  to  everything  when  I  really  hadn't  been  born 


THE  STRONGEST  29 

to  anything.    Now  I  can  see.    Let  Fate  present  the 
bill.     I  will  pay  cheerfully." 

"Yes,  the  charity  given  off  by  our  love  makes  us 
see  our  goodness  reflected  everywhere,  and  we  say: 
'I'll  pay' — like  a  debtor  who  is  counting  on  the  indul- 
gence of  his  creditors.  You  say  that  you  will  not 
pay  too  much  for  happiness.  Do  you  mean  even  if 
you  paid  for  it  with  the  loss  of  happiness?" 

"I  cannot  lose  it.  Once  I  have  had  it,  I  have  the 
memory  forever.  I  have  had  and  still  have  enough 
happiness  to  lull  my  sorrows,  which  do  not  come  from 
you,  and  unshaken  love  defies  the  Fates." 

"But  love,"  said  Henri,  tenderly,  "that  includes 
our  child,  in  whom  our  love  prolongs  itself." 

"Ah  well,  and  sha'n't  we  struggle  for  the  sake  of 
our  child?  Shall  we  not  accept  for  Claudia,  and  with 
her,  the  last  resort,  which  we  did  not  dare  to  accept 
for  each  other — I  mean  exile?  Let  us  live.  That  is 
theionly  price  we  have  been  asked  to  pay  until  now. 
Say  that  you  are  willing  to  pay " 

Indeed  all  they  had  to  do  was  to  live.  This  pay- 
ment, which  seems  easy,  does  not  come  without  its 
cruel  surprises. 

Dominic  was  not  at  all  a  jealous  father,  and  his 
first  acts  of  authority  over  the  child  were  naturally 
tempered  by  the  sovereign  desires  of  the  mother. 
But  already  it  was  clear  that  the  legal  power  was 
not  on  the  distaff  side  and  that  a  powerful  will  was 
.applying  itself  to  arrange  everything  in  Claudia's 


30  THE  STRONGEST 

soul  to  prepare  her  for  the  destiny  which  he  was  plan- 
ning for  his  own  advantage,  the  selfish  ambition  of  a 
master.  There  was  a  decisive  difference  between 
what  he  wanted  and  what  they  wanted  who  drew 
their  authority  from  life  itself,  whose  sole  object 
was  the  completest  and  most  beautiful  development 
of  the  soul  of  the  child,  for  her  own  sake  and  through 
her  for  those  she  might  eventually  help.  At  first 
this  divergence  of  purpose  was  more  a  sorrowful  fear 
than  a  real  wound.  And  besides,  Claire  was  there. 
That  was  enough. 

Six  years  of  happiness,  six  eternities,  six  flashes 
of  lightning  for  the  day  of  reckoning.  The  creditor 
who  presented  himself  was  Death. 

In  three  days  Claire,  flourishing  in  more  than 
human  beauty,  strong  with  a  limitless  passion  for 
life,  reflecting  in  the  luminous  depths  of  her  eyes 
the  divine  joy  of  things,  was  laid  rigid  and  cold 
in  the  coffin  where  all  human  pleasures  come  to 
an  end.  It  happened  that  Dominic  was  in  Norway 
on  business.  Henri,  incapable  of  playing  a  part, 
would  have  completed  the  misery  by  some  act  of 
madness. 

Three  days,  of  which  every  minute  was  to  remain 
graven  in  each  fibre  of  his  being;  three  days  of  un- 
speakable torture  in  the  deceptions  of  hope;  three 
days  of  heroic  combat  which  ended  in  the  inevit- 
able defeat. 


THE  STRONGEST  31 

In  the  delirium  of  death  Claire  repeated  one 
prayer: 

"Henri,  Henri — you  must  live.  I  want  you  to. 
You  must  live  for  me,  for  Claudia!" 

To  the  last  breath  the  blanched  lips  murmured: 
"Live." 

And  the  invocation  to  life  ended  only  when  death 
sealed  the  lips  of  Claire  Mornand,  wife  of  Puymau- 
fray. 

Grief  has  no  words,  the  heart  no  sobbing  for  irre- 
parable disasters.  The  consoling  peace  of  the  tomb 
is  the  temptation  for  helpless  weakness.  Henri  did 
not  think  of  dying,  for  he  felt  himself  already  dead. 

He  was  shaken  with  a  terrible  start  when  he  was 
told  that  Dominic  was  coming  home.  It  was  too 
much.  He  felt  that  he  must  leave.  Without  con- 
sulting him  Nanette  took  him  at  once  to  Milan  where 
he  had  spent  some  lovely  days  in  a  brief  flight  with 
Claire.  The  atrium  of  St.  Ambrose,  where  once  he 
had  dreamed,  hand  in  hand  with  Claire,  gave  him  a 
twinge  of  pain  which  suddenly  broke  out  in  a  burst 
of  tears.  Each  day  he  came  to  cry  there  and  to  find 
his  life  again  in  the  solace  of  tears. 

One  day  Nanette  decided  that  the  time  had  come, 
and  said  simply:  "There's  little  Claudia." 

"I  know,"  said  Henri.  "I  am  ready.  Let  us 
start." 

At  six  Claudia  could  not  be  melancholy,  and  in 
her  mourning  clothes  she  seemed  smiling  and  gay 


32  THE  STRONGEST 

at  the  arrival  of  her  "uncle."  It  was  a  bitter  blow 
for  his  sorrowing  heart;  nor  was  it  the  last. 

An  odd  little  creature,  good  hearted,  playful,  she 
treated  Henri  with  bursts  of  affection  and  with  dis- 
concerting brusquerie.  Puymaufray,  shaken  with 
his  eternal  sorrow,  sought  the  dead  woman  in  this 
frail  spirit  whose  flower  was  growing  on  the  ruins  of 
his  world.  Haunted  by  the  idea  that  he  must  live 
for  Claudia  because  that  was  living  for  Claire,  he 
accepted  the  torture  of  continuing  life  in  order  to 
continue  his  love,  to  make  her  who  was  dead  live 
again  in  the  living  child. 

In  the  mobile  face  of  the  child  he  discovered  traces 
of  the  sweet  gravity  of  her  mother.  He  gave  these 
resemblances  authority,  ingeniously  re-created  at- 
titudes, expressions,  tones  of  the  voice,  and  stub- 
bornly attempted  to  resurrect  what  was  dead. 

Her  eyes — her  eyes,  above  all — were  a  sharp, 
continual  torment  to  him.  Titian's  Caterina  Cor- 
naro  in  Florence  has  eyes  so  strangely  coloured  that 
innumerable  copyists,  furiously  at  work  before  the 
immutable  canvas,  make  the  eyes  a  gray  or  blue  or 
brown.  When  you  are  close  to  them  the  play  of 
changing  light  colours  them  with  indefinable  tints. 
Such  were  Claudia's  eyes,  fugitive  of  definition. 
The  arrow  of  her  gaze  sped  from  the  slender  bow  of 
her  eyebrows.  There  was  nothing  of  the  tranquil 
serenity  of  her  mother's  look.  They  gave  no  resting 
place  for  confidence,  no  repose.-  And  yet,  in  the 


THE  STRONGEST  33 

changing  iris  there  were  at  times  flashes  of  green  with 
which  Claire's  spirit  seemed  to  tremble  into  life. 
Henri  feverishly  looked  out  for  these  flashes  and  fell 
back  at  once  into  the  night  of  darkness.  But  even 
in  the  dark  the  possessing  light  of  the  dead  shone  in 
him  with  the  indomitable  power  of  love.  He  felt 
her  moving,  saw  her,  obstinately  tried  to  bring  her 
back  from  the  beyond  in  the  child  of  her  body  and 
of  her  heart.  It  was  the  eternal  ecstasy  and  the 
eternal  torture  of  a  lif e  devoted  to  the  effort  of  mak- 
ing a  dream  come  true. 

Puymaufray  made  Claudia  love  him  because  he 
loved  her,  only  to  find  Dominic  already  installed  in 
her  soul,  the  legal  father  arrayed  against  the  legiti- 
mate pretender. 

Dominic  was  soon  consoled,  and  thought  of  and 
lived  by  the  factory  alone.  Claudia  was  only  one 
card  in  his  hand,  and  not  the  lowest.  She  was  the 
bait  for  the  aristocratic  marriage  which  was  to  crown 
his  life  of  labour.  Harle  wanted  to  prepare  every- 
thing for  this  high  future,  to  arrange  everything  in 
her  spirit,  and  every  detail  of  her  education  was 
planned  by  him  for  his  own  purposes. 

He  had  to  discuss  his  ambitions,  and  made  Henri 
his  confidant;  twisting  the  dagger  by  endless  obser- 
vations in  which  the  child  appeared  only  as  a  tool 
for  his  own  greatness.  In  vain  Henri  protested  that, 
the  child  had  a  will  of  her  own,  a  personality. 

"I  am  considering  that,"  answered  the  manu- 


34  THE  STRONGEST 

facturer.  "You  will  see  whether  I  can  work  human 
pulp  as  well  as  paper  pulp." 

Puymauf ray  felt  the  chill  as  of  a  sword-blade  pass 
through  him  into  Claire's  heart.  He  was  shaken  by 
a  fury:  to  defend,  at  all  cost,  his  daughter,  his  love, 
the  dead  woman  who  was  coming  to  lif e,  against  this 
infamous  enterprise.  At  whatever  disadvantage, 
he  must  fight.  Love  would  be  stronger  than  the 
lies  of  the  world.  The  tortured  father  grew  crafty 
in  his  tricks  to  save  his  daughter  from  the  other 
one. 

Harle  had  to  be  managed  first.  Henri  applied 
himself,  tried  to  gain  his  confidence.  Dominic 
sensed  his  weakness  and  took  advantage  of  it. 
However,  the  friendship  of  the  Marquis  de  Puy- 
maufray  was  by  no  means  a  negligible  factor  in 
Harle's  plans  for  the  future.  So,  occasionally,  he 
made  concessions  to  the  "prejudices"  of  his  friend, 
but  he  never  yielded  in  anything  essential. 

After  something  of  a  tussle  he  agreed  to  renounce 
the  social  advantages  of  a  convent  school,  but  Henri, 
to  whom  the  very  thought  of  separation  was  like 
death,  saw  a  governess  straight  from  the  hands  of 
the  Jesuits  installed  instead.  This  lady,  duly  for- 
tified with  parental  authority,  at  once  began  to  foment 
a  revolt  against  "your  godfather's  notions."  The 
"  notions"  were  to  open  the  child's  heart  to  truth, 
goodness,  pity — to  sentiments  of  human  compassion 
from  which  the  impulse  to  give  aid  might  spring. 


THE  STRONGEST  35 

Harle's  desire  was  to  make  "his  daughter"  a  power 
for  his  use. 

There  is  an  art  of  using  the  words  "devotion"  and 
"sacrifice"  so  that  they  call  up  emotions  quite  dis- 
tinct from  those  that  they  should  connote.  What  is 
more  banal  than  the  exhortation  to  be  charitable? — 
and  what  action  is  more  rare  than  disinterested  help, 
given  without  hope  of  heavenly  recompense  or 
worldly  praise?  Organized  charity,  of  Church  or 
State,  subjecting  each  and  all  to  the  prevailing  for- 
mula, becomes  an  excuse  for  ferocious  egotism,  freed 
from  all  restraint.  Henri  tried  to  arm  the  child 
against  the  lessons  of  these  realities.  But  he  came 
up  against  the  development  of  her  self — instinctive 
at  first  and,  later,  encouraged  by  class  education. 

Claudia  listened  to  the  discussions  of  which  she 
was  the  object.  People  all  said  the  same  thing,  but 
the  practical  conclusions  were  so  different. 

No  one  expressly  advised  her  to  be  indifferent  to 
the  miseries  of  others.  The  seed  of  selfishness  needs 
no  cultivation.  * '  Be  good,  Claudy ;  love  your  fellow- 
men  who  suffer  while  all  the  joys  of  the  world  are  pre- 
pared for  you,"  she  was  told.  But  what  could  be 
the  effect  of  these  words  when  she  was  forever  seeing 
miseries  that  could  be  alleviated,  but  which  no  one 
made  any  effort  to  alleviate?  A  curt  word  of  re- 
fusal, spoken  in  the  hurry  of  life;  a  gesture  of  dis- 
gust with  the  sordid  beings  from  another  world; 
the  common  cry,  "I  can't  help  everyone,"  which 


36  THE  STRONGEST 

often  expresses  lack  of  will,  not  lack  of  capacity,  to 
help;  these  sink  deep  into  the  attentive  soul  of  a  child. 

In  spite  of  her  childish  understanding  Claudia  felt 
that  there  was  a  power  over  her.  Her  "godfather," 
whom  she  loved,  used  to  speak  to  her  of  her  mother, 
whose  name  no  one  else  mentioned  in  her  presence. 
At  the  same  time  he  made  her  feel  vaguely  that  he 
was  a  spirit  tensely  resisting  the  rest  of  the  world. 
"The  rest  of  the  world"  was  her  governess,  Mme. 
Marie-Therese,  with  her  sugared  flattery,  and  Harle, 
redoubtable  to  others  but  prodigal  to  her  with  eternal 
seductions  for  her  vanity. 

Puymaufray  watched  her  grow,  and  finding  more 
and  more  of  the  mother  in  the  child,  waited  for  the 
time  when  she  could  reason. 

"It  was  suffering,"  he  told  himself,  "which  forged 
Claire's  soul.  And  there  will  be  plenty  of  suffering 
here." 

He  forgot  that  for  their  hazardous  miracle  Claire 
and  he  had  both  been  required;  he  for  his  love,  she 
for  her  rebellion  against  the  vulgar  gifts  of  the  world. 

Claudia  Harle,  a  young  girl  now,  conscious  of  her 
beauty  and  wealth,  looked  down  from  a  height  upon 
the  world.  Happy  to  be  alive,  proud  of  her  life, 
she  took  possession  of  the  world  and  loved  it  as  it 
was,  since  she  was  happy  in  it.  She  went  to  Paris 
often  with  Mme.  Marie-Therese  and  her  father. 
While  she  was  gone  Henri  lived  in  a  trance.  And 
inevitably  the  return  to  Radegonde  was  a  bitter  sur- 


THE  STRONGEST  A  37 

prise  to  him.  But  how  could  he  complain  of  the 
joys  of  twenty?  Would  he  not  alienate  forever  the 
heart  he  was  trying  to  conquer  and  to  protect? 

Visits,  dancing  parties,  innocent  remarks  of  de- 
pravity with  which  precocious  youth  amuses  itself; 
the  theatre,  with  its  sometimes  risque  commen- 
taries; the  good  Fathers  with  their  benign  advice, 
all  shared  Claudia's  happy  life.  To  her,  all  these 
things  seemed,  and  really  were,  of  a  miraculous 
unity.  Her  "godfather"  alone  was  off  key.  From 
time  to  time  a  brief  note  from  his  daughter  startled 
him,  wounded  him,  by  a  word  innocently  dropped, 
tormented  him  and  made  him  despair  of  the  extrav- 
agances which  he,  the  too  expert  Parisian,  under- 
stood all  too  well.  Sometimes  he  ran  up  to  Paris, 
"to  share  their  pleasures,"  in  the  suffering  of  a  life 
which  had  been  flung  from  its  orbit. 

Harle  was  not  afraid  to  take  his  daughter  to  the 
house  of  the  beautiful  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps, 
nee  Billaud,  who,  with  twenty  thousand  francs 
income  by  her  marriage  contract,  enjoyed — even 
while  her  husband  was  alive — more  than  a  hundred 
thousand  francs  through  friendship  with  the  famous 
Baron  Oppert.  At  Puymaufray's  first  objections 
Harle  nailed  him  with  one  word. 

"My  daughter  meets  your  relatives,  your  friends 
— the  finest  families  in  France — there.  There  isn't 
a  more  respectable  salon  in  Paris." 

It  was  true. 


CHAPTER  H 

PUYMATJFRAY'S  face  was  whipped  by  the 
wind  as  he  rode  into  the  battle.  The 
hedges,  the  trees,  and  stones  along  his  way 
spoke  to  him  of  Claire.  She  had  passed  there. 
"Soon  it  will  be  my  turn,"  he  said  to  himself,  "each 
passing  hour  is  a  step  toward  peace." 

He  drew  rein  in  the  huge  park,  and  the  imitation 
grottos  and  dreary  waterfalls  disgusted  him,  although 
they  had  passed  unseen  before.  Now  he  was  shocked, 
for  his  misfortune  had  brought  him  back  to  the  com- 
mon feelings  of  humanity. 

"Good  morning,  Uncle,"  cried  a  gay  voice  from 
the  steps.  "I  was  just  having  them  hitch  up  the 
pony  to  come  and  have  lunch  with  you." 

"The  old  folk  are  getting  ahead  of  the  young  nowa- 
days," he  answered,  laughing,  softening  the  reproach 
with  a  huge  kiss. 

"Papa  is  at  the  factory  and  doesn't  want  to  be 
disturbed.  Suppose  we  go  down  to  St.  Aubin. 
We've  got  two  hours  ahead  of  us." 

"Let's.    I'm  ready." 

Claudia  was  charming  in  her  little  fur  toque;  a 
blue  jacket  and  a  straight  skirt  set  off  her  adolescent 


THE  STRONGEST  39 

figure,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  excessively  Pari- 
sian face  she  would  have  seemed  charmingly  young 
and  quietly  elegant. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  at  St.  Aubin?"  said 
Henri,  after  vainly  trying  to  reconcile  himself  to 
something  harsh  in  Claudia's  youthful  face. 

"We're  going  to  see  a  farmer's  boy  who  had  his 
fingers  cut  off  in  the  sawmill  yesterday." 

"I  suppose  he's  had  everything  done  for  him  al- 
ready?" 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  Papa's  looked  after  everything. 
These  people  would  not  lack  for  anything.  They 
are  very  pious." 

"And  if  they  weren't  pious?" 

"  Then  they'd  only  get  what  the  law  allows.  Papa 
wants  everyone  to  go  to  church." 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  all  that?" 

"Oh,  me?  I'd  go  to  see  them  of  my  own  accord 
just  as  I'm  going  to-day,  because  they're  in  trouble. 
However,  I  understand  Papa.  People  need  religion." 

"His  religion,  exactly?" 

"Oh,  his!  He  does  his  duty.  That's  enough. 
We  don't  ask  more  of  any  one." 

"Well,  I  thought  that  religion  was  the  doing  of 
good — something  more  than  appearing  in  the  tem- 
ple— and  I  never  saw  compulsory  religion  do  any- 
thing more  than  make  a  decoration  for  deceit." 

"I  am  not  capable  of  discussing  that  with  you, 
Uncle.  All  I  know  is  that  God  has  created  two 


40  THE  STRONGEST 

classes  of  people,  the  rich  and  the  poor.  And 
we  ought  to  see  that  our  inferiors  practise  the 
religion  that  teaches  them  to  submit  to  the  trial  of 
life." 

"Why  it  might  be  Dominic  himself  talking.  He 
is  one  of  the  superiors,  he  is,  and  so  he  consoles  him- 
self with  the  trials  of  others." 

"Why,  Uncle  Henri,  you're  not  going  to  criticize 
Papa,  are  you?  He  is  very  good — and  so  are  you." 

"And  so  are  you,  and  everybody.  It's  a  pity  that 
with  all  this  goodness  there's  so  much  unhappiness 
on  earth." 

"There  isn't  so  much  as  you  say,  Uncle.  Do  you 
think  that  the  people  that  work  in  the  factory  are 
unhappy?  Papa  gives  them  work  to  do  and  lets 
them  earn  their  living." 

"They  give  him  something  in  return,  too,  don't 
they?" 

"Well,  of  course;  because  we're  on  the  side  of  the 
'superiors'.  And  besides,  Papa  works,  too — a  lot. 
You're  an  anarchist,  Uncle;  that's  what  you  are. 
To  hear  you  talk,  no  one  would  ever  guess  that  you 
were  once  a  Zouave  for  the  Pope." 

"I  wasn't  of  my  own  accord,  child." 

They  had  struck  off  from  the  main  road  and  gone 
down  a  path  that  was  frozen  over.  The  earth, 
powdered  with  hoar-frost,  was  closed  against  all 
living  things,  hiding  under  its  icy  mantle  the  mystery 
of  the  birth  of  the  future.  There  is  a  poetry  of 


THE  STRONGEST  41 

winter,  healthier  and  more  germane  to  the  strength 
of  man  than  the  torpor  of  the  summer.  It  is  a  time  of 
ungrateful  struggles  against  the  elements,  a  time 
of  suffering,  but  what  strength  in  the  knowledge  that 
victory  comes  at  the  end!  Henri  spoke  of  it  to 
Claudia,  who  cheerfully  decided  that  that  proved 
that  everything  was  for  the  best  on  earth. 

She  marvelled  at  birds  of  passage  flying  in  a  wedge 
against  the  wind.  "You  see,  Uncle,  there  must  be 
someone  at  the  head." 

"Yes,  my  dear,  but  those  at  the  head  have  the 
hardest  work.  It  isn't  at  all  like  that  with  us." 

•JU 

The  injured  man,  seated  by  the  ash-strewn  hearth, 
his  hand  swathed  in  bloody  rags,  seemed  to  take  his 
misfortune  philosophically. 

"I  can  still  work,"  he  said.  And  then  he  added, 
naively,  "I'll  be  exempt  from  service." 

As  Claudia  had  foreseen,  he  lacked  nothing.  Per- 
haps his  old  mother  expressed  her  gratitude  for  the 
visit  too  humbly?  But  how  be  strict  in  the  measure 
of  things  when  you  depend  on  someone  else  for  the 
right  to  be  alive,  for  the  right  to  suffer? 

The  expression  of  joy  at  the  prospect  of  escaping 
military  service  shocked  Claudia,  who  spoke  of  it  as 
they  were  returning. 

"I  don't  like  his  want  of  heroism,  either,"  said 
Henri.  "But  tell  me,  what  could  we  know  of  the 
real  feelings  of  these  people  if  education  had  given 


42  THE  STRONGEST 

tliem  the  veneer  of  hypocrisy?  They  show  them- 
selves naked,  while  others,  whose  words  do  not  wound 
you,  are  often  worse.  And  besides,  this  poor  fellow, 
who  sees  military  service  only  as  a  crushing  burden 
in  peace  time,  might  rush  into  the  front  rank  and  be 
killed  in  defence  of  his  home.  The  best  thing  we 
can  do  is  to  give  each  one  something  to  defend.  We 
have  judged  others  too  hastily — it  is  a  harder  thing 
to  understand  them." 

They  had  regained  the  high  road,  and  were  march- 
ing along  with  the  physical  satisfaction  of  movement, 
when  a  cart  which  came  up  to  them  stopped  sud- 
denly. Count  Armand  de  Hauteroche,  who  leaped 
from  it,  was  a  gentleman  of  good  family,  a  rustic  in 
every  sense  of  the  word.  Totally  lacking  in  culture, 
a  great  hunter  and  horseman,  the  young  squire  was 
wasting  at  inns  what  remained  of  his  fortune,  scuffling 
with  the  farmwife  while  the  farmer  was  out,  crack- 
ing broad  jokes  with  peasants  at  the  fairs.  Puy- 
mauf ray  was  disagreeably  surprised  at  his  familiarity 
with  Claudia.  He  did  not  know  that  Hauteroche 
was  looked  upon  with  so  much  favour  at  Radegonde. 
His  displeasure  grew  when  the  newcomer,  without 
formality,  announced  that  he  would  keep  them  com- 
pany to  the  chateau.  Lunch  was  inevitable.  The 
girl  seemed  not  displeased,  and  the  walk  terminated 
with  stupid  remarks  about  the  weather  and  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  countryside. 

Dominic's  reception  was  calm.    He  had  not  for- 


THE  STRONGEST  43 

given  Henri  for  speaking  ill  of  the  Comtesse  de 
Fourchamps  whose  grace  cast  a  charm  over  his 
innocence.  At  once  Hauteroche  noisily  attracted 
the  master's  attention.  He  told  stories,  was  re- 
markably skilful  in  keeping  the  centre  of  the  stage. 

Harle  took  his  revenge  over  the  coffee,  in  the  con- 
servatory. 

"My  dear  count,"  he  said,  "your  hunting  adven- 
tures are  the  finest  in  the  world.  But  look!  you  only 
chase  after  beasts.  Did  you  ever  realize  that  I  am 
a  hunter,  too?  Without  capering  about  in  the  ice 
and  the  mud  I  send  out  my  pack  of  workers  to  con- 
quer the  world.  It's  good  sport.  And  then  I  don't 
commit  useless  massacre.  I  exact  a  tribute  just  as 
your  ancestors  did." 

The  count  did  not  contradict,  although  he  resented 
the  comparison  between  his  ancestors  and  this  paper- 
maker.  But  you  had  to  be  indulgent  to  a  millionaire, 
especially  if  he  had  a  pretty  daughter  to  marry  off. 
While  Mme.  Marie-Therese  explained  the  miracles 
of  Our  Lady  of  the  Shop  to  Henri,  Hauteroche  went 
into  raptures  over  the  wonderful  grotto  in  which  a 
steam  pump  shot  a  torrent  of  water  over  some  fish  in 
the  noisy  basin  below.  That  seemed  to  him  the 
highest  expression  of  art,  and  he  shouted  his  apprecia- 
tion. 

"How  I'd  like  to  be  a  captain  of  industry,"  "he 
cried,  suddenly,  with  excessive  enthusiasm. 

"I  can  very  well  believe  it,"  said  Harle,  modestly 


44  THE  STRONGEST 

triumphant.  "  The  Pope  can  make  me  a  count  more 
easily  than  you  a  manufacturer  of  paper." 

This  time  the  scion  of  nobility  felt  that  the  bour- 
geois had  gone  beyond  the  limit.  He  had  to  keep  an 
appointment  to  see  some  horses.  After  he  had  gone 
Dominic  took  Henri's  arm. 

"Well,  old  chap,  you  aren't  saying  a  thing.  I'll 
bet  you're  thinking  of  a  beautiful  Comtesse  de  Hau* 
teroche  whose  first  name  is  Claudia." 

"You're  crazy!" 

"Well,  I've  thought  of  it.  The  Hauteroche  cha- 
teau is  a  beauty.  I  could  make  it  fit  for  a  prince." 

"Not  forgetting  the  cellars,  eh?" 

"Yes;  I  know;  the  count  does  get  a  bit  rough. 
But  my  money  would  soon  give  him  back  his  family 
pride.  And  my  own  power,  plus  ancestors " 

"And  what  about  me,  Papa?"  cried  Claudia. 
"What  would  I  be  doing?" 

"You  would  do — every  thing.  All  I  think  of  is 
your  happiness.  You  have  everything  except  a 
great  name.  Do  you  dare  to  say  that  you  haven't 
winked  your  eye  at  Hauteroche?" 

"I  do.  It's  a  lovely  name.  I  should  have  urinked, 
as  you  say,  if  I'd  listened  to  Mme.  Marie-Therese 
celebrating  the  glories  of  the  house.  But  really, 
that's  going  a  little  too  fast.  I'm  twenty.  I  don't 
think  I'll  lack  chances.  It  seems  to  me  I'll  have  my 
pick." 

"That's  fine,  my  child.     But  I'm  suspicious  of 


THE  STRONGEST  45 

Paris.  Its  vices  are  worse — and  more  costly — than 
those  of  the  country.  Hauteroche  is  stupid  because 
of  the  taint  in  the  line.  Did  you  notice  the  lesson 
I  read  him  a  little  while  ago?  You  have  to  be  a 
republican  nowadays.  Even  the  Pope's  one.  He 
has  his  reasons,  I  think." 

"Don't  you  think,"  asked  Puymaufray,  "that you 
are  all  talking  about  marriage  as  if  it  were  an  indus- 
trial combine?" 

"It  won't  be  you  who'll  change  the  world,"  said 
Harle,  drily.  "If  life  gets  mixed  up  with  the  ques- 
tion of  income,  it's  not  our  fault.  We  can't  do  any- 
thing. My  duty  to  my  daughter  is  to  combine  all 
the  conditions  of  happiness.  I  put  an  ever-flourish- 
ing financial  condition  first.  She  will  have  to  look 
out  for  the  rest." 

"And  I  think  I  can  go  as  far  from  that  beginning 
as  any  one.  But  I  warn  you,  Papa,  /  shall  have  a 
word  to  say." 

"That's  understood.  You  won't  refuse  to  accept 
advice  from  the  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps."  And 
(as  Henri  could  not  restrain  a  gesture):  "Listen, 
Henri,  don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself.  It  is  incredible 
that  a  Parisian,  of  family,  should  become  so  pro- 
vincial. You  know  better  than  most  people  what 
the  gossip  of  Paris  amounts  to.  You've  got  some- 
thing against  the  comtesse,  that's  all.  Well,  you're 
wrong.  The  comtesse  is  beautiful,  loved,  honoured 
by  everyone.  What's  more,  we're  expecting  her 


46  THE  STRONGEST 

here.  You  aren't  going  to  sulk,  I  hope.  She  won't 
let  you." 

"And  when  is  Mme.  la  comtesse  coming?" 

"In  three  days*  Somebody  wants  me.  Good- 
night." 

"Claudy,  you  were  coming  to  lunch  with  me  to- 
day," said  Henri.  "Let  me  expect  you  to-morrow." 

"Yes,  Uncle  Henri;  I'd  love  to  come." 

Night  had  fallen,  Henri  de  Puymaufray  returned 
to  his  lonely  hearth,  wondering  whether  he  could, 
with  the  help  of  the  dead,  stand  against  the  powers 
he  saw  so  clearly,  so  strongly  arrayed  against  him. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  •  AHE  next  morning,  when  the  pony  trotted  into 
the  yard  at  Puymaufray,  Henri,  who  was 

«*•  watching  for  it  from  the  window,  came  down 
the  steps  like  a  gladiator  going  into  the  arena. 
Nanette,  who  was  also  on  the  lookout  from  her 
dormer  window,  catching  sight  of  -Mme.  Marie- 
Therese's  sharp  face,  wrapped  in  shawls  and  blue 
with  the  wind,  shut  her  lips  and,  with  a  hard  look, 
shot  at  her  some  unchristian  wishes  like  an  arrow 
whistling  her  welcome. 

However,  Claudia  and  the  marquis,  arm  in  arm 
like  two  lovers,  had  already  crossed  the  threshold, 
with  bursts  of  laughter  and  joyous  gestures,  and 
when  Nanette  came  down  into  the  oak-timbered 
room  which  Puymaufray  used  for  a  study,  two 
young  kisses  smacked  her  cheeks. 

"How  are  you,  Nanette?  What  have  you  been 
thinking  of  me — back  three  days  without  coming 
over  for  the  news?  It  just  couldn't  be  arranged — 
and  not  my  fault  at  that.  Would  you  believe  it, 
uncle  never  said  a  word  yesterday,  and  I  didn't  make 
any  excuses  either,  so  as  not  to  tell  fibs." 

"Well,  then,  Missy,  don't  begin  now.    Friendship 

47 


48  THE  STRONGEST 

is  rare  in  this  world.  And  when  you  have  a  god- 
father like  yours,  you  can't  love  him  too  much. 
You'll  realize  it  later  on.'* 

"Here,"  cried  Puymaufray,  "if  you're  going  to 
start  lecturing  you'd  better  get  back  to  your  work. 
Besides,  Mme.  Marie-Therese  is  frozen.  Go  settle 
her  comfortably  before  the  fire  and  see  to  lunch. 
We're  going  for  a  walk  in  the  park;  we'll  be  back  in 
less  than  an  hour." 

It  was  half  park,  half  garden.  There  were  flower 
beds  with  high  hedges  radiating  from  a  fountain 
under  an  Ionic  cupola;  there  were  rose  bushes  and 
vegetables  and  fruit  trees  and  lawns,  dark  in  the 
shadow  of  great  oaks,  and  the  ruddy  trunks  of  pine 
trees  bent  against  the  storm,  all  in  magnificent  dis- 
order. Claudia  loved  this  confusion.  She  instinc- 
tively realized  that  the  imitation  English  park  at 
Radegonde,  with  its  cement  rocks  and  the  Harle 
monogram  over  the  gate,  was  not  the  last  word  in 
art.  But  the  vegetables  were  too  much  for  the  pupil 
of  Mme.  Marie-Therese. 

"Uncle,"  she  protested,  "your  park  is  very  beauti- 
ful, all  over  ice  and  with  this  light  on  it.  But  don't 
you  think  these  cabbages  might  be  planted  some- 
where else?" 

"Yes,  my  dear,  they  might.  I  could  spend  a  lot 
of  money  here  disentangling  the  jumble;  I  wish  I 
had  never  spent  my  money  for  worse  than  that. 
And  yet  I  find  it  charming.  And  so,  instead  of 


THE  STRONGEST  49 

changing  it,  I  give  it  away  to  those  who  are  sighing 
for  a  bit  of  land.  Every  spring  I  assign  them  lots, 
and  I  am  well  repaid  by  the  rosy  cheeks  of  the  chil- 
dren. It's  just  transferring  pleasure." 
"  That's  true,  Uncle.  You're  very  good." 
"No.  I  am  just  a  man.  At  least  I  won  that  from 
my  ruin.  You  see,  wealth  isolates  the  heart.  We 
get  rich  and  we're  surrounded  by  the  selfishness  of 
those  who  have  been  beaten,  and  the  worse  selfish- 
ness of  those  who  have  won  out.  I  suppose  if  I  were 
a  great  manufacturer  I  would  be  like  Harle.  I 
would  stake  my  glory  on  making  bigger  profits  by 
cutting  down  wages.  But  as  I  happen  to  be  a  fallen 
feudal  chieftain  .  .  .  well,  all  I  can  do  is  to 
laugh  at  Nanette  when  she  gets  angry  because  those 
that  I've  helped  take  advantage  of  me  and  pilfer 
my  fruit  or  sneak  off  with  my  firewood." 

"But  surely  you  don't  excuse  that  sort  of  thing?" 
"Why,  yes,  I  do.  I  get  the  feeling  of  being  gener- 
ous for  the  little  I  do  for  them.  But  they  think  it's 
so  trivial  compared  with  what  I  might  do.  The 
difference  in  our  points  of  view  causes  some  misun- 
derstanding." 

"Well,  but  we  can't  give  everything  away  to  other 
people." 

"Never  fear.  We'll  be  spared  that  calamity. 
But  I  do  want  to  make  you  understand  one  thing. 
I  want  you  to  know  that  the  world  that  you  see  is 
deformed  by  wealth.  And  then  I  want  you  to  realize 


50  THE  STRONGEST 

that  there  is  another  world,  which  is  deformed  by 
poverty.  You  have  a  duty  to  that  second  world. 
A  change  in  your  fortune  would  show  you  how  close 
you  are  to  it.  Instead  of  running  away  from  it, 
go  toward  it  with  open  hands,  and  you  will  be  hap- 
pier in  giving  yourself  to  the  lowest  than  you  can 
ever  be  in  parading  around  with  your  class." 

"But  we  do  do  good.    Papa  does." 

"Yes;  by  debit  and  credit;  part  of  the  invisible 
expenses  of  running  his  plant.  He  assures  his  posi- 
tion in  the  cure's  paradise  and  then  gouges  for  twice 
as  much  those  to  whom  he  had  done  good.  He 
doesn't  know  the  value  of  a  kind  word  which  goes 
right  to  the  heart.  It  isn't  his  fault.  He  never 
had  a  chance  to  suffer.  He  would  have  to  be  ruined." 

"And  me? — do  you  want  me  to  have  that  chance?" 

"Perhaps.  Why  do  you  need  more  land  than  I 
will  leave  you?  Poor  dear,  your  millions  will  bring 
;you  more  misery  than  you  think.  They'll  make 
you  a  pretty  little  artificial  thing  with  your  soul  for- 
ever false,  unless  you  can  protect  yourself  against 
the  corruption  that  goes  on  every  hour  of  the  day. 
I  was  a  millionaire,  too.  I  did  a  great  deal  of  harm 
to  others  and  to  myself  without  ever  realizing  what 
I  was  missing.  A  chance  I  didn't  deserve  saved 

me  from  the  abyss f And  besides,  I  am  a  man. 

Society  doesn't  give  women  the  chance  to  win  back." 

Claudia  heard  him  without  understanding.  She 
felt  that  she  was  being  held  back,  by  the  power  of  a 


THE  STRONGEST  51 

true  love,  from  all  the  things  which  promised  her 
happiness.  What  was  the  object  of  this  fierce  pas- 
sion which  wanted  her  to  be  ruined?  A  thousand 
questions  rushed  to  her  lips,  but  she  did  not  dare  to 
express  them.  Puymaufray  was  vexed  by  this  silent 
resistance  and  realized  his  mistake.  He  was  speak- 
ing out  his  thoughts  without  trying  to  enter  into  the 
thoughts  of  her  whom  he  wished  to  persuade.  In 
vain  he  looked  for  a  way.  And  both,  loving  each 
other,  pursued  their  separate  paths,  hardly  conscious 
of  the  fact  that  their  pleasant  talk  was  ending  in 
silence,  troubled  with  unspoken  misunderstandings. 

The  bell  rang  out  for  lunch  and  called  them  back 
to  each  other.  Claudia  flung  her  arms  around  Puy- 
maufray's  neck,  and  cried; 

"Uncle,  dear,  I  love  you,  and  I  know  you  love  me. 
I  know  you're  hurt  by  the  way  I  feel  about  things, 
but  that's  the  way  the  world  seems,  to  me.  I  must 
be  wrong.  But  Papa  tells  me  exactly  the  opposite, 
and  every  day  he  proves  what  he  says,  with  examples 
in  real  life.  Please  forgive  my  stupid  brain  and  kiss 
me.  I  know  you  want  me  to  be  happy." 

"What  else  could  I  want,  dear  child?" 

They  signed  their  truce  with  kisses,  and  went  to- 
ward Nanette  and  Mme.  Marie-Therese,  who  seemed 
to  be  having  a  most  friendly  conversation  near  the 
fountain. 

Nanette  hadn't  wasted  her  time.  Without  beat- 
ing about  the  bush  she  had  worked  her  way  into  the 


52  THE  STRONGEST 

favour  of  this  astute  woman  whose  intellectual  supe- 
riority she  took  pains  to  announce.  She  had  won  her 
confidence  and  was  rewarded  by  having  the  gover- 
ness tell  her  at  great  length  of  the  noble  house  of 
Hauteroche.  At  last  she  cried  out: 

"Our  Miss  Claudia  will  make  a  lovely  comtesse." 
"I  should  say  so,"  replied  Mme.  Marie-Therese, 
"only  I  never  even  thought  of  that." 

Lunch  was  very  gay.  Claudia's  final  words  had 
set  the  sun  shining  in  Henri's  heart,  and  the  girl  was 
happy  to  see  the  happiness  she  had  brought.  When 
they  were  alone  beside  the  little  table  where  the 
coffee  was  served  Claudia  said  suddenly: 

"Well,  Uncle,  tell  me  what  you  want  me  to  do." 
"But  all  I  want  is  for  you  to  be  yourself,  my  dear. 
I  want  you  to  be  honest  and  good,  instead  of  yielding 
to  the  temptations  all  around  you.  I  don't  doubt 
that  your  father  loves  you.  But  he  loves  you  for 
himself  and  I  love  you  for  yourself.  He  thinks  he's 
doing  the  right  thing  by  making  you  a  part  of  his 
ambitions  for  money  and  place.  He  wants  to  make 
you  the  instrument  for  his  happiness  and  for  yours. 
But  what  would  you  do  with  all  that  magnificence? 
I  know.  You  would  exhaust  its  brief  pleasures  and 
then  you  would  be  bored.  And,  when  you  were 
blasee  and  your  heart  was  empty,  you  would  still 
have  the  authority  of  your  beauty  and  the  power 
of  your  wealth  to  expend  in  Heaven  knows  what 
follies.  You  know  by  this  time  what  a  girl  can  do  in 


THE  STRONGEST  53 

Paris.  You  were  dragged  off  to  Italy  when  you  were 
too  young  to  understand.  They  took  the  flower 
of  your  freshness  and  flung  it  into  the  wind.  They 
stole  away  the  pleasure  of  wanting  things.  Think 
of  something  you  might  want.  There's  nothing 
left.  And  now  they're  talking  of  marrying  you. 
What  do  you  expect  from  marriage?  Your  vanity 
will  be  satisfied.  And  then? 

"Oh,  so  it's  Hauteroche  that's  on  your  mind. 
Well,  must  I  be  destined  to  unhappiness  just  because 
I'll  be  a  comtesse?  You're  a  marquis  yourself,  Uncle. 
That's  why  you  can  make  fun  of  the  nobility." 

"I'm  not  making  fun  of  it.  I'm  judging  it.  It's 
a  feather  in  the  cap,  the  conventional  thing  for 
millionaires  nowadays.  My  grandfather  Pannetier, 
who  paid  for  my  father's  name  with  his  fortune,  got 
rich  by  selling  paper  shoes  to  the  defenders  of  the 
empire.  The  founder  of  my  family,  not  so  many 
centuries  ago,  was  a  dirty  shepherd,  you  can  tell 
that  by  our  name,  Lepastre.  I'd  like  to  show  you  an 
ancestor  of  the  Montmorencys  say  in  Caesar^s  time. 
From  what  incredible  mixtures  we  spring!  Even 
Hauteroche ' ' 

"But,  Uncle,  you  saw  very  well  that  I  don't  want 
to  marry  Hauteroche." 

"I  never  thought  that  you'd  let  them  marry  you 
to  that  drunkard.  And  yet  you  didn't  discourage 
him  any  too  much.  You  even  took  the  trouble  to 
conceal  his  hopes  from  me.  And  yet  I  don't  know 


54  THE  STRONGEST 

but  what  you  will  do  worse  if  Mme.  la  Comtesse 
de  Fourchamps  is  to  be  your  guide.  That  woman 
wouldn't  be  at  Radegonde  if  your  mother  were  alive." 

"Mme.  la  Comtesse  will  not  impose  on  me,  Uncle. 
I  will  make  my  own  choice,  and  I  promise  you  I 
won't  choose  without  getting  your  advice." 

"Oh,  Claudia,  Claudia  dear,  how  well  you  guessed 
what  I  wanted  you  to  say.  You  don't  know,  dearest, 
how  much  I  love  you.  I  want  you  to  be  a  real 
woman — loving,  loved,. good — because  love  comes  to 
goodness  in  the  end.  Nothing  else  can  make  you 
content  with  yourself — can  put  you  above  the  ups 
and  downs  of  life.  No  one  ever  talks  to  you  about 
your  mother;  I  myself  hesitate  and  tremble  to  talk 
about  her.  But  a  time  has  come  for  decision.  You 
have  to  choose  between  vulgar  pleasures  which  are 
only  appearance,  and  the  true  happiness,  the  human 
happiness  which  comes  from  a  life  nobly  spent.  I 
have  told  you  that  I  lived  vilely  until  the  day  when 
your  wonderful  mother  opened  my  eyes  and  made 
me  a  better  man.  The  run  of  mankind  was  as  far 
from  me  at  that  time  as  they  seem  to  you  to-day. 
I  was  in  another  world,  as  people  stupidly  say.  And 
all  of  a  sudden  I  saw  that  it  was  wrong,  that  we  must 
love  one  another  and  help  one  another.  To-morrow 
sorrow  may  come  to  you  and  you  will  look  for  the 
solace  of  a  kind  word.  If  I  have  saved  anything 
from  the  wreck  of  a  misspent  life,  I  owe  it  to  your 
mother.  I  owe  her  everything.  And  since  a  terrible 


THE  STRONGEST  55 

fate  has  taken  her  away  I  am  trying  to  pay  my  debt 
to  you — if  you  want.  Now  do  you  understand?" 

"Oh,  Uncle,  why  have  you  never  spoken  this  way 
to  me  before?" 

"I  have,  my  dear.  But  I  spoke  badly.  To-day 
danger  has  made  me  brave.  There  is  more.  When 
your  mother  died  I  would  have  died  with  her,  and  in 
her  last  agony  she  saw  in  my  eyes  that  I  would  die. 
She  cried  out  that  I  must  live — for  you.  It  was  her 
last  word:  and  I  have  lived.  And  here  I  am,  trying 
to  find  and  set  apart  whatever  she  put  into  you  of  her 
spirit,  because  you  are  of  her  soul  and  her  blood  and 
her  heart,  and  you  must  not  be  false  to  her.  But 
the  world  is  strong  and  can  drag  the  upright  spirit 
from  its  proper  path.  Even  those  who  love  you  are 
carried  away  and  try  to  carry  you  with  them.  And 
I  am  fighting  to  hold  you.  Day  by  day  I  have  fought 
— for  twenty  years.  I  have  been  without  skill,  with- 
out persistence,  unworthy  of  the  obligation  your 
mother  put  upon  me,  often  near  defeat,  alone  against 
everyone,  always  resisting  desperately  this  combina- 
tion of  the  strongest.  But  when  I  was  deserted  by 
all  humanity,  some  power  cried  out  your  mother's 
name  in  the  depths  of  my  soul,  and  it  wag  enough 
to  win,  for  she  loves  you  still  through  me.  The  good- 
ness of  your  heart  returns,  goes  back  to  her — to  us. 
I  am  crying  because  I  have  suffered.  But  you  are 
crying,  too,  and  that  makes  suffering  a  joy.  Your 
mother  is  coming  back.  Do  not  speak:  I  see  her." 


56  THE  STRONGEST 

Sobbing  in  each  other's  arms  they  clung  together 
as  if  never  to  be  separated  again. 

"Uncle,  dear,"  said  Claudia,  finally,  "God  bless 
you  for  giving  me  this  hour.  I  am  only  a  child.  Oh, 
how  you  must  love  me  to  be  able  to  speak  that  way 
to  me!  And  I — I  misunderstood  you.  I  am 
frivolous  and  foolish  and  ungrateful.  Your  heart 
was  open  to  me  and  I  closed  mine.  Say  that  you 
forgive  me." 

"I  cannot  say  the  word.    I  love  you." 

"Yes,  yes.  Say:  'I  forgive  you;  I  want  you  to 
obey  me.' " 

"I  forgive  you.    I  want  you  to  obey  me." 

"Now,  I  will  obey  you,  daddy." 

Henri  had  a  moment  of  terrible  happiness  at  the 
name;  he  started.  Claudia  went  on: 

"You  see,  I'm  not  really  bad,  and  I  always  come 
to  you  first.  Only  you're  so  sad  and  the  world  is  so 
young  and  so  beautiful." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"It  seems  so  to  me.  And  you  can't  wonder  that 
I  just  let  myself  go.  You  wouldn't  want  to  lock  me 
up  at  Radegonde?  Papa  makes  things  too  easy  for 
me,  I  know.  You  reproach  him  because  of  the  future. 
Maybe  you're  right.  But  how  can  I  help  being 
grateful  to  him  for  the  present.  Everything  smiles 
at  me  and  makes  me  happy.  You  think  it  would  be 
better  to  have  a  little  unhappiness?  Don't  let's 
tempt  fate.  Let  me  try  to  be  good  without  having 


THE  STRONGEST  57 

suffered.  I  know  it's  harder,  but  if  you  help  me 
can't  I  succeed  ?  Papa  loves  me  in  his  way  and  wants 
me  to  triumph  with  his  money  so  I  can  give  him  some 
new  strength  for  himself.  We  won't  change  him. 
Why  can't  I  take  advantage  of  the  beautiful  spectacle 
which  he  is  preparing  for  my  eyes?  Don't  I  know 
that  people  will  covet  my  money  much  more  than 
they'll  love  me?  It's  a  comedy,  but  it's  very  amus- 
ing, and  I  want  to  have  a  good  time  first.  There's 
nothing  wrong  with  pleasure  in  itself.  The  danger 
is  that  people  forget  to  live.  I  won't  run  that  risk, 
because  I've  got  you.  You'll  always  be  there,  fierce 
as  conscience.  I'll  tell  you  everything.  We'll  laugh 
and  we'll  cry  together.  And  best  of  all,  we'll  love 
each  other.  You  will  tell  me  about  my  mother  and 
I  will  try  to  give  you  back  something  of  her."^ 

If  Dominic  could  have  taken  his  mind  off  his  factory 
that  night  he  might  have  noticed  the  brilliant  eyes, 
the  short,  nervous  speech,  the  gay  accents,  so  rare 
in  his  friend.  He  paid  no  attention.  On  his  side, 
Henri  felt  sure  of  Claudia  and  had  some  compunc- 
tions about  abusing  his  victory  over  Harle.  He 
pitied  him  a  little.  But  when  he  returned  to  Nanette 
he  thought  only  of  his  triumph  and  cried  to  her: 

"The  child  is  ours.  I  won  for  Claire,  by  Claire. 
I  have  given  her  back  her  child.  I  have  saved  what 
remains  of  our  beloved  dead." 


CHAPTER  IV 

MADAME  LA  COMTESSE  DE  FOUR- 
CHAMPS  was  received  at  Radegonde  like 
a  queen.  She  carried  it  off  very  well. 
She  was  well  born  and  for  twenty  years  she  had 
reigned  by  her  beauty,  her  grace,  gently  sharpened 
by  an  indulgent  contempt  for  everything  that  was 
outside  her  orbit.  Paris  has  an  unheard-of  treasure 
of  fidelity  for  its  queens  of  the  stage  or  of  society; 
when  a  woman  is  proclaimed  beautiful,  even  if  she  be 
merely  attractive,  she  will  keep  her  reputation  for 
beauty  until  it  is  finally  in  ruins.  The  Comtesse 
de  Fourchamps  had  not  got  to  that  point  yet,  but 
she  was  calling  in  the  aid  of  paints  and  cosmetics, 
which  emphasized  her  features  and  showed  up  her 
implacable  will  under  the  gaiety  of  her  smile.  After 
having  been  brunette  and  blonde,  in  turn,  she  was 
now  red-haired  and  counselled  old  and  young,  as 
Claudia  could  testify,  in  the  matter  of  colours.  Her 
eyes  were  still  beautiful,  radiant  with  promise  to 
which  the  imperious  tightening  of  her  lips  gave  the 
lie.  She  was  tall,  her  features  were  coldly  correct, 
and  there  was  something  imposing,  authoritative 
in  the  way  she  held  back  her  head.  The  woman 

58 


THE  STRONGEST  59 

had  "pull."  One  could  almost  say  she  was  all 
"pull." 

Her  husband,  a  prominent  Alpine  climber,  met  her 
at  the  Grands  Mulcts  and  was  her  slave  before  they 
returned  to  Chamonix.  With  an  income  of  twenty 
thousand  francs  he  remained  a  poor  man  and  sold  his 
farms  in  Normandy  to  put  everything  in  his  wife's 
hands.  They  set  themselves  up  luxuriously  in  Paris, 
and  employed  capital  of  all  kinds  so  fruitfully  that 
their  luxury  increased  too  fast  for  scandal.  Marie 
de  Fourchamps  showed  her  superiority  in  assuring 
her  support.  Rich  Jews,  ever  in  search  of  social 
authority,  were  the  first.  With  them  came  the  crowd 
of  hungry  journalists,  avengers  of  every  offense. 
The  Fourchamps,  in  fact,  seemed  to  be  of  a  doubtful 
nobility.  But  the  lofty  favour  of  an  archduke,  based 
on  loans  to  friends  hard  pressed  by  dressmakers, 
had  made  the  lovely  comtesse  a  familiar  of  princes. 
Behind  these  solid  ramparts  she  could  defy  the  world; 
and  she  did  defy  it,  obliging  to  everybody  and  gen- 
erous to  those  who  helped  her,  crushing  only  those 
who  were  already  down,  disarming  slander  with  her 
grace;  and  succeeded. 

Fourchamps,  however,  went  back  to  his  life 
of  mountain  climbing  and  followed  the  path  of 
Humboldt  on  the  slopes  of  Chimborazo.  He  re- 
mained, unhappy  man,  inside  a  volcano.  He  is  still 
there,  in  spite  of  the  searching  parties  sent  out  by  his 
wife. 


60  THE  STRONGEST 

Her  mourning  was  of  a  rare  propriety.  At  a  time 
of  life  when  every  year  counted  she  lived  in  seclusion 
for  a  whole  year,  in  the  company  of  Baron  Oppert, 
her  financial  adviser.  By  a  refinement  of  delicacy 
which  was  highly  appreciated  by  everyone  the  Baron 
himself  did  not  give  his  annual  flower  fete  that  year. 

The  Ball  in  White,  to  which  Harle  took  Claudia, 
was  the  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps's  brilliant  return 
to  the  world.  The  noble  widow  did  not  even  ask 
herself  whether  the  ball  was  audacious,  for  she  had  all 
the  trumps.  Certain  names  had  become  irrevocably 
attached  to  hers,  and  the  aristocratic  crowd  was  des- 
tined to  come  to  her.  And  Baron  Oppert,  as  a  con- 
vert, brought  with  him  the  support  of  the  Church; 
which,  with  money,  was  enough. 

Harle  did  not,  therefore,  lack  authority  to  shield 
him  from  Henri's  criticism.  Not  that  he  needed  the 
support  of  Baron  Oppert,  for  he  had  that  happy  dis- 
position which  made  him  think  himself  the  equal 
of  any  money  king.  Without  knowing  the  baron's 
past  he  admired  his  force  and  respected  him  as  a 
splendid  example  of  humanity.  But  his  soul  was 
exclusively  for  the  comtesse.  He  was  a  victim  to  her 
charms  and  not  less  a  victim  because  the  lovely  hand 
he  kissed  was  opening  the  door  of  the  world  to  him. 
It  was  a  door  which  was  marked  "Closed"  but  which 
might  open,  at  least  halfway  and  without  too  much 
difficulty,  to  a  Chicago  meat  packer. 

A  great  project  over  which  Harle  had  brooded  a 


THE  STRONGEST  61 

long  time  was  about  to  be  realized.  But  what  was 
industrial  sovereignty  to  him  without  the  crowning 
glory  of  social  success?  This  was  the  supreme  re- 
ward, and  the  comtesse,  who  possessed  it,  seemed  to 
walk  under  an  aureole  of  grace  and  beauty.  A  union 
with  her  could  put  at  his  disposal  the  hypothetical 
ancestors  of  the  Fourchamps  line.  He  was  exempt 
from  the  strict  propriety  of  a  convert  and  could 
show  the  utmost  zeal  in  furthering  the  political 
designs  of  the  Church.  He  often  said  that  the  aris- 
tocracy of  wealth  ought  not  to  refuse  its  support  to 
the  ungilded  nobility.  One  possessed  the  present 
hour;  the  other  was  the  ornament  of  centuries  of 
history.  They  should  walk  together,  in  broad  day- 
light, united  under  the  Holy  Father.  What  did  the 
name  matter  if  a  mere  change  in  words  could  assure 
the  reality  of  their  power?  First  they  had  to  push 
back  the  Revolution.  At  last  Oppert  understood. 
Harl6  was  the  man  to  hold  back  the  mob.  His 
workers  never  made  a  false  step.  He  made  it  his 
business  to  combine  certain  interests,  to  bring  up 
practical  propositions  and  shame  the  theorists. 
Through  him  the  upper  classes  could  win  back  their 
hold.  Society  would  be  balanced  again  and  then 
they  would  realize  how  much  will  power  there  was 
in  the  man  who  had  succeeded  where  others  who 
seemed  greater  had  failed. 

These  dreams,  Harle  imagined,  were  his  secrets, 
but  the  comtesse  had  divined  them  long  ago.    In 


62  THE  STRONGEST 

moments  of  weariness  and  boredom  she  would  tell 
herself  that  this  might  be  her  destiny.  Soon  little 
of  the  joys  of  the  world  would  remain  for  her.  She 
had  never  enjoyed  anything  but  the  triumph  of  her 
charm.  Her  beauty  was  coming  to  an  end.  There 
remained  the  inexhaustible  enjoyment  of  power. 

It  was  child's  play  for  her  to  keep  the  paper-maker 
on  the  alerk  always  wavering  between  hope  and  fear. 
She  took  it  into  her  head  to  chaperon  Claudia, 
and  Harle*  deeply  appreciated  the  favour.  With  the 
child  she  seemed  to  be  taking  the  future  statesman. 
But  from  the  fir;st  moment  she  felt,  in  Claudia  and 
even  in  Harle  himself,  the  distant  opposition  of 
Puymaufray.  She  felt  that  he  was  the  lion  in  the 
path  who  must  be  conquered  first.  Without  under- 
standing the  authority  against  which  her  own  power 
was  breaking  she  decided  to  put  everything  to  the 
touch  and  risk  an  encounter  at  once. 

The  most  minute  scrutiny  of  Puymaufray's  past 
revealed  nothing,  except  the  legend  of  his  wild  life  in 
Paris,  which  could  give  her  a  clue.  Her  investiga- 
tion in  Paris  was  in  fact  the  one  thing  to  throw  her  off 
the  scent,  for  neither  despair  of  love  nor  financial  ruin 
could  account  for  Henri's  exile.  The  man  of  the  world 
never  pays  for  a  catastrophe  of  passion  by  renounc- 
ing the  world.  The  loss  of  his  fortune  was  no  better, 
for  the  traffic  between  coats  of  arms  and  fresh  mil- 
lions was  at  its  height.  There  was  something  else. 
But  what? 


THE  STRONGEST  63 

The  countess  came  to  find  out.  Her  first  move 
after  she  arrived  at  Radegonde  was  to  announce 
that  she  wanted  "to  surprise  the  Puymaufray  in  his 
lair." 

When  they  came  to  the  house  Nanette  informed 
them  that  Henri  was  out  in  the  fields,  discussing  the 
sale  of  some  trees  with  M.  Deschars  and  Pierre 
Quete,  the  wheelwright.  They  decided  to  go  to 
meet  them.  The  tang  of  the  air  and  the  hard  ground 
made  walking  a  pleasure. 

"Who  is  M.  Deschars?"  asked  the  countess,  as 
she  might  have  asked:  "Is  that  a  crow  or  a  pigeon 
over  there?" 

"Deschars!"  Harle  exclaimed.  "Another  queer 
one.  I  didn't  know  he  was  here.  He's  a  friend  of 
Claudia's.  They  used  to  play  together  during  the 
holidays.  The  Deschars  are  an  old  family  in  Poitou 
who've  got  rich  by  a  century  or  two  of  stinginess. 
This  one  isn't  quite  thirty  and  is  sowing  francs  along 
every  road  because  he  likes  a  wandering  life.  He's 
not  a  bad  fellow.  He  travels  all  over  the  world  and 
is  always  coming  back  from  China  or  Java  or  some- 
where. Sometimes  you  see  him  in  Paris  or  in  his 
park,  about  an  hour's  walk  from  here.  I  don't 
know  where  he's  been  the  last  two  years.  Henri 
must  be  glad  to  see  him  back.  Those  two  like  to 
hear  each  other  talk  about  how  bad  everything 
is.  Maybe  Deschars's  paradoxes  will  amuse  you. 
He  sweetly  proposes  to  turn  the  world  upside  down 


64  THE  STRONGEST 

because  somewhere  on  his  travels  he  saw  the  opposite 
of  what  we  have  or  do  or  are.  That  rather  seems  to 
me  to  be  an  argument  for  changing  the  others." 

"I  have  nothing  to  propose.  I  let  other  people 
alone.  You'll  never  make  me  believe  that  the 
world's  a  bad  place,  no  matter  what  you  say.  It's 
enough  for  me  and  my  friends  to  make  the  best  of 
whatever  comes  up." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Claudia,  "perhaps  we  can 
save " 

"You're  going  to  give  us  one  of  your  uncle's 
sermons,"  shouted  Dominic.  "But  here  he  comes 
himself." 

Puymaufray's  astonishment  was  extreme. 

"My  dear  marquis,"  cried  the  countess,  without 
giving  him  a  moment.  "I  bring  you  peace  in  the 
folds  of  my  cloak.  You  quarrelled  with  me  once 
about  I  don't  know  what;  and  Harle,  here,  pretends 
that  you  still  remember  it.  So  I've  come  to  receive 
your  apologies  and  to  be  merciful.  I  see  repentance 
.in  your  eyes.  Good.  You  are  forgiven." 

"Madame,  I  am  overwhelmed  by  your  excessive 
indulgence,  and  I  shall  do  all  I  can  to  be  worthy  of  it. 
And  in  bidding  you  welcome  to  Puymaufray  I  have 
the  pleasure  of  presenting  to  you  my  friend  Maurice 
Deschars,  who  brings  us  the  latest  news  from  the  end 
of  the  world/' 

"Ah,  I  sha'n't  ask  for  it,"  said  the  countess,  laugh- 
ing with  contemptuous  kindliness.  "Just  at  present 


THE  STRONGEST  65 

I  know  no  Negroes.  I  have  a  few  little  Chinese  at 
the  Mission  society.  That  is  enough.  You  must 
let  me  be  ignorant  and  take  the  marquis's  word  for 
it  that  you're  to  be  admired." 

"I'm  not  to  be  admired  at  all,  madame,  for  I've 
done  nothing  admirable;  never." 

"What?  And  didn't  you  go  for  a  whole  month 
without  water  in  the  desert,  in  a  white  helmet,  sur- 
rounded by  blacks  who  betrayed  you  to  the  natives 
who  wanted  to  assassinate  you?  Didn't  you  follow 
in  the  footsteps  of  Stanley?" 

"No,  madame.  I  explored  nowhere  and  dis- 
covered nothing.  I  was  simply  travelling  about. 
There's  nothing  to  boast  of  in  that." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  for  you,"  replied  the  lady,  whom 
this  simplicity  instinctively  displeased.  "I  met 
Stanley  when  he  was  the  thing.  When  I  found  out 
that  one  of  his  companions  had  bought  a  little 
Negress  for  a  checkered  handkerchief  and  made  the 
troup  eat  her,  just  to  show,  then  I  got  a  thrill." 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  my  friend,"  observed  Puy- 
maufray.  "Every  man  does  what  he  can." 

The  intruder  broke  up  the  first  burst  of  confidence 
which  the  comtesse's  strategy  had  arranged.  He 
was  a  tall,  dark  young  man  of  a  rather  timid  appear- 
ance, with  sombre  gray  eyes  in  which  a  natural  reso- 
lution seemed  to  be  at  grips  with  a  distant  melan- 
choly. Harle  welcomed  him  with  boisterous  cordi- 
ality and  Claudia  seemed  sincere  enough  when  she 


66  THE  STRONGEST 

told  him  she  was  glad  to  see  him.  The  comtesse, 
searching  their  faces,  could  see  nothing  more  than 
good  friendship.  All  the  same  a  premonition  entered 
her  heart. 

But  she  had  come  to  see  Puymaufray.  She  cheer- 
fully reproached  him  for  misunderstanding  her 
friendship  and  told  him  her  troubles,  then  banished 
them  with  a  smile.  No  one  knew  better  than  she 
did  the  precise  cost  of  worldly  frivolity  and  the  mis- 
take of  judging  by  appearances.  Life  flings  apart 
those  whom  common  feelings  ought  to  bring  to- 
gether. When  they  meet  again  they  find  that  they 
are  giving  themselves  to  ingrates.  All  this  she  said 
in  a  low  voice,  as  if  she  were  talking  to  herself,  while 
the  others  followed  a  few  paces  behind. 

Like  a  good  Parisian  who  is  on  guard  against 
woman  when  she  is  most  charming,  Henri  seemed  to 
yield  utterly  to  the  attraction  of  her  triumphant 
smile.  The  clever  woman  of  the  world,  for  her  part, 
did  not  run  the  risk  of  misunderstanding  this  easy 
surrender.  Beneath  her  confident  words  there  lurked 
a  reserve.  These  were  only  preliminaries. 

But  Harle,  looking  at  his  friend,  joyfully  thought: 
"He's  caught  hand  and  foot."  Claudia  was  more 
skeptical  and  waited.  For  the  moment  she  was 
quarrelling  with  Deschars.  He  had  answered  her 
first  friendly  questions  and  had  joined  her  in  reminis- 
cence, but  he  was  obstinate  in  his  assertion  that  he 
had  brought  nothing  home  for  his  friends. 


THE  STRONGEST  67 

"I  didn't  find  anything  worthy  of  you,"  he  said. 
"So  I  brought  nothing  but  myself.  And  that's 
nothing." 

"It  would  be  enough.  But  I  know  you  too  well, 
and  I'm  sure  you  brought  something  with  you. 
Let's  see.  Surely  you've  got  some  little  black  men 
with  silver  rings  in  their  noses,  a  stuffed  tiger,  some 
sabres,  or  some  idols  or  something?" 

"  I  have  nothing.  There  must  be  a  chest  of  clothes 
and  things  somewhere,  but  it  took  the  wrong  boat. 
Some  day,  when  we're  not  thinking  about  it,  it  will 
turn  up.  That's  for  Nanette." 

"I  knew  that  I'd  make  you  speak  in  the  end. 
Well,  I'll  have  to  make  up  to  Nanette.  She 
won't  refuse  me  a  bit  of  foulard." 

There  was  a  wood  fire  in  the  "tapestry  room," 
where  Nanette  was  serving  the  tea.  When  she  had 
taken  off  her  furs  the  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps 
shone  with  the  joy  of  being  at  home  and  declared 
that  she  was  glad  to  escape  from  the  world. 

"Well,  at  last  I've  found  a  real  farmer,"  she  said. 
"I  admit  that  I  was  surprised  at  first  by  all  the 
pecking  poultry  in  your  yard.  But  my  dear  mar- 
quis, what  you  call  your  hut  and  what  I've  seen  of 
your  park  are  enchanting.  They're  real,  not  just 
scenery  for  an  opera.  It's  a  lovely  retreat  for  a 
Zouave  who's  become  a  hermit." 

"I  didn't  choose  it,  madame.  I  found  it  so  and 
I'll  leave  it  so.  Claudia  will  keep  it,  out  of  respect 


68  THE  STRONGEST 

for  my  memory,  safe  for  a  little  while  from  the  axe 
and  the  trowel." 

"What  I  admire  above  all  is  that  you've  never 
regretted  anything  of  what  you  left  behind.  What 
a  powerful  seduction  it  must  have  been  to  make  you 
leave  Paris  so  suddenly.  It's  very  wonderful.  At 
least  so  long  as  it  wasn't  some  mean  trick  which 
Paris  played  on  you  and  which  you  have  never 
forgiven." 

"Something  of  that,  I  think.  All  I  knew  in  Rome 
and  Paris  was  carnival.  Well,  you  soon  see  the  end 
of  that.  Everything  they  went  mad  over  seemed 
to  me  to  be  a  disguise  of  something  real.  Here  I 
understand  everything,  I  am  satisfied  with  and  I 
love  them.  And  if  I  dared  I'd  say  that  they  love 
me,  too.  I  get  a  joy  from  the  earth  which  you  would 
never  understand." 

"Rousseau!  Mirabeau!  The  friend  of  mankind ! 
It's  marvellous!  I'm  afraid  that  I'd  be  a  rather 
unconvincing  peasant.  But  just  the  same  I  think 
you're  to  be  envied.  But  it's  no  use;  you  can't  cut 
yourself  off  from  contact  with  humanity." 

"There  are  human  beings  here,  I  assure  you." 
"Who's  that?    Your  old  bearded  Nanette?" 
"Don't  laugh  at  her.    She  is  a  noble  soul.     I 
don't  know  a  better.    Then  there's  Pierre  Quete,  the 
blacksmith,  whom  you  saw  making  off  in  the  bushes 
when  you  came  up.    Winter  nights  I  go  down  and 
smoke  my  pipe  at  the  smithy.    Besides,  I  have  a 


THE  STRONGEST  6fr 

quarrel  of  thirty  years'  standing  with  Dominic  and 
a  love  affair  of  twenty  years'  with  Claudia.  What 
more  do  I  want?  From  time  to  time  Deschars 
comes  back  from  the  antipodes.  Finally,  from  Paris, 
farther  from  us  than  the  antipodes,  you  come  your- 
self, madame.  You  couldn't  say  we  lacked  anything.. 
Rather  that  we  are  overwhelmed." 

"What?  You  refuse  to  let  me  sing  you  a  mad- 
rigal?" 

"No,  I'm  quite  sincere.  And  I  haven't  said  any- 
thing about  my  books,  which  you  never  find  time 
to  read  in  Paris,  although  you  have  to  talk  about 
them.  And  I  ought  to  count  in  the  permanent 
sights  of  the  land,  the  man  in  the  furrow,  the  animals, 
the  harvest,  the  whole  life  of  the  earth!" 

"Stop.  It's  too  beautiful.  A  pipe  with  Pierre 
would  be  enough.  I  should  have  admitted  that  I 
was  beaten  at  the  start.  And  yet,  you  can  call  me 
a  fool,  but  I  insist  that  pretty  soon  you'll  be  giving 
up  these  pleasures  for  the  melancholy  of  Paris. 
From  this  day  you'll  owe  me  a  visit.  You  aren't 
the  man  to  keep  me  waiting." 

"I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  being  at  your  ser- 
vice, madame,  whenever  you  command  me." 

"I  knew  it.  Harle  has  an  appointment  in  Paris 
for  some  great  business  matters,  he  says.  Claudia 
is  coming  up  for  the  concerts  and  theatres  and  some 
dancing.  If  you  don't  come  up  I  sha'n't  be  able 
to  keep  her  there.  I'll  have  the  regular  talk  which 


70  THE  STRONGEST 

always  comes  before  she  goes:  about  uncle,  bored  to 
death,1  all  alone,  among  the  pleasures  you  have  just 
described.  You  take  away  the  friends  I  want  to 
keep  beside  me.  So  come  along,  and  be  one  of 
my  friends  yourself." 

"Won't  you  let  me  think  that  I  am  one  of  them 
already?" 

"I'd  rather  believe  that  you  sincerely  want  to 
be." 

While  they  were  talking  Harle  was  pressing  Des- 
chars  to  tell  him  about  the  manufactures  of  Ceylon. 
How  did  they  make  paper  there?  Was  it  possible 
that  a  traveller  could  come  back  without  knowing 
that?  Might  as  well  remain  in  Poitou.  The  com- 
tesse  kept  a  watchful  eye  on  Claudia,  who  broke  into 
her  father's  discussion  with  impertinent  questions 
about  Buddha's  tooth  and  Adam's  footprint,  of 
which  she  desired  a  casting. 

Decidedly  the  comtesse  did  not  like  Deschars. 
A  handsome  youth,  no  doubt,  and  nicely  set  up, 
with  his  look  of  a  young  animal  at  rest.  Why  did 
she  get  the  feeling  that  he  was  tired  of  himself, 
without  interest  in  life?  He  was  full  of  contradic- 
tions, and  the  Parisian  felt  that  he  was  hardening 
himself  against  the  conventional  lies  of  our  civiliza- 
tion. His  simplicity,  his  savage  honesty,  broke  down 
falsehood,  and  Claudia  could  not  help  laughing  with 
him,  when  she  should  have  been  sending  him  back 
to  the  jungle,  about  his  business. 


THE  STRONGEST  71 

Claudia  felt  that  her  godfather's  courteous  gaiety 
was  concealing  a  fever  in  his  heart.  She  went  to 
him,  spoke  lovingly  to  him,  and  made  him  laugh  by 
her  wild  remarks.  The  comtesse  quickly  recognized 
the  deep  bond  between  the  two.  Evidently  she 
was  to  find  a  stronger  resistance  than  she  had 
expected. 

After  all,  there  was  nothing  surprising  in  this  love 
of  an  aging  man  for  the  child  who  graced  his  lone- 
liness, his  only  joy  in  twenty  years  of  solitary  rural 
life.  Time  and  prudence  would  be  required  to  break 
up  this  alliance.  Claudia  was  sufficiently  attracted 
by  the  pleasures  of  youth.  Could  Puymaufray 
come  back  to  the  world?  The  adventure  was 
hazardous.  The  country  had  swallowed  up  all  his 
life.  Yet  there  might  be  a  reawakening!  The 
ancient  flame  might  be  born  again;  Puymaufray, 
the  beau  of  Paris,  might  burst  into  a  supreme 
flare  of  light  before  he  went  out  forever.  Dominic 
Harle  and  his  daughter  would  be  freed  from  the 
menace  which  now  threatened  the  comtesse.  And 
then,  who  could  tell  what  turn  things  might  take? 
The  marquis,  coming  splendidly  into  the  world,  had 
a  value  in  the  marriage  market  quite  superior  to 
that  of  the  vulgar  paper-maker  with  his  super- 
fluous millions.  The  chance  was  worth  gambling 
for. 

But  the  gambler  felt  herself  nervous.  She  knew 
that  Puymaufray  could  not  be  caught  so  easily  as 


72  THE  STRONGEST 

Harle.  Henri  was  armed  with  a  universal  disgust; 
his  secret,  if  he  had  one,  was  not  to  be  discovered. 

"I  haven't  been  beaten  yet,"  she  reassured  herself. 

Henri,  too,  was  disquieted;  but  he  let  himself  go, 
in  the  joy  of  being  close  to  Claudia,  and  forgot  the 
future. 

They  parted  with  an  engagement  to  dine,  and  at 
dinner  the  comtesse  made  it  her  affair  to  eliminate 
Deschars.  She  decided  that  he  was  not  dangerous. 

"So  it's  really  true,  Monsieur  Deschars,"  she  said 
at  the  end  of  her  investigation.  "You  really  go  up 
and  down  in  the  world  for  nothing." 

"For  myself,  madame.  I  can't  find  a  place  for 
myself  in  active  life,  like  M.  Harle,  so  I  take  my 
fun  in  watching  other  people  live,  and  I  like  the 
trouble  of  changing  my  point  of  view  from  time  to 
time." 

"Well,  there  are  plenty  of  things  to  see  in  Paris." 

"Yes,  but  in  Paris  I'd  be  something  to  be  seen 
myself.  Our  old  Europe,  which  makes  such  a  fuss 
in  the  world,  isn't  so  very  large,  I  assure  you.  In 
Asia  there  are  races  who  hold  all  earthly  happiness 
in  contempt.  We  took  the  doctrine  from  them  and 
preach  it  at  every  crossroads.  But  who  ever  prac- 
tises it?  Well,  I  am  not  of  my  world.  The  thing 
that  amuses  me  most  is  the  variety  of  ways  in  which 
people  imagine  they  can  deceive  life.  I  forget  to 
live  myself  by  watching  them — and  that  is  what  I 
gain.  Why  should  I  go  back  to  Paris?" 


THE  STRONGEST  73 

"I  don't  know.  You  are  a  greater  traveller  than 
I  thought,  because  you  are  coming  from  the  stars. 
Go  back  there,  dear  sir.  Look  down  with  pity  on 
those  who  still  cling  to  the  earth,  let  your  joy  be  in 
watching.  We  will  take  ours  in  living." 


CHAPTER  V 

FOR  a  whole  month  the  Comtesse  de  Four- 
champs  kept  Ste.  Radegonde  on  the  alert. 
A  fine  steel   spring   in  her   restored   every 
fault  of  will  and  action  after  the  utmost  weariness. 
She  had  to  be  well,  had  to  feel  her  strength.    Then 
she  could  compel  herself  to  do  anything. 

From  the  day  Maria  Billaud  understood  her  des- 
tiny she  began  to  save  her  energies  for  the  great 
steeplechase  of  life.  She  kept  a  book  of  her  physical 
wealth.  She  took  care  of  herself,  prevented  deteri- 
oration or  repaired  it.  She  vanquished  joy  and  sorrow 
alike,  so  that  her  body  might  not  be  torn  by  great 
emotions.  She  would  have  no  wrinkles.  No  tears — 
no  great  shouts  of  laughter.  A  smile  was  enough. 
Her  whole  life  was  concentrated  in  the  pleasure  of 
reigning,  with  no  other  profit  than  the  thought:  "I 
am  on  the  heights."  And  more:  "Others  are  below 


me." 


She  planned  the  assault  of  Puymaufray  with 
grand  deliberation.  She  rode  and  drove;  she  played 
with  her  fan  in  the  drawing  room  or  became  poetic 
in  the  conservatory.  She  demanded  visits  from 
Deschars:  she  took  pains  to  be  friends  with  Nanette. 

74 


THE  STRONGEST  75 

It  was  from  Nanette  that  she  won  Henri's  great 
secret. 

"He  loves  Mam'selle  Claudia  too  much,  madame. 
It  isn't  strange;  she's  his  godchild.  He  saw  her  born. 
He'll  be  very  sorry  when  she's  married  and  leaves 
him  all  alone.  Ah,  if  madame  would  only  give  him 
something  to  think  about;  take  him  to  Paris — he 
ought  to  be  kept  there  a  long  time.  Madame  would 
be  very  good  if  she  would  help  me  save  m'sieur  le 
marquis  from  the  lonely  old  age  which  is  awaiting 
him." 

The  noble  lady  had  a  high  opinion  of  this  ally. 
But  had  she  really  learned  the  secret?  Was  there  a 
secret  to  learn?  Why  this  burst  of  audacious  confi- 
dence right  under  Puymauf ray's  eyes?  The  countess 
redoubled  her  efforts  at  friendship.  And  Nanette, 
expanding,  talking  endlessly,  told  her  nothing. 

At  night  when  Henri  returned  from  Radegonde  and 
sat  down  before  the  fireplace,  Nanette  congratulated 
him  with  ironic  commentaries: 

"  Ah,  you're  a  lucky  one,  Monsieur  Henri,  to  make 
yourself  loved  like  that.  Because  she  loves  you, 
that  woman  from  Paris  does.  She  can't  talk  about 
another  thing.  You  can  see  that  her  heart's  full  of 
it.  You  know  love  affairs  like  that,  sometimes 
there's  an  idea  behind  them." 

"And  what  idea  do  you  suggest  is  behind  Mme. 
la  comtesse?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Nanette;  "perhaps 


76  THE  STRONGEST 

she  has  a  husband  picked  for  Mile.  Claudia — a  man 
you  wouldn't  like.  But  she  surely  hasn't  come  down 
to  Ste.  Radegonde  to  see  me.  M.  Harle  seems  to  be 
quite  overcome  with  his  comtesse,  but  her  eye  is  all 
for  you.  Maybe  she  wants  to  be  a  marquise.  How- 
ever, my  idea  is  that  there  is  something  underhand 
going  on." 

"Tell  me  what  you  think." 

"I  can't  tell  you  because  I  don't  know.    She's 
too  good  friends  with  our  little  one.    She  must  be 
thinking  of  using  her  somehow.    M.  Harle  wouldn't 
get  her  anywhere.    So  what?" 

"Well,  there's  only  one  thing  sure.  We've  got  to 
protect  Claudia." 

Claudia  was  protecting  herself  quite  well,  and  with- 
out great  effort.  True,  she  had  had  no  great  temp- 
tations. She  had  had  a  surfeit  of  pleasures  too  soon 
and  had  little  curiosity  left.  She  had  been  shown 
a  world  where  money  was  everything,  could  do  every- 
thing, accomplished  everything.  She  had  money, 
and  youth,  and  beauty.  So  she  was  destined  to  rule. 
But  over  whom? — over  what?  She  did  not  ask. 
The  future  seemed  so  beautiful  that  she  made 
it  a  point  of  pride  not  to  stretch  out  her  hand  to 
capture  it.  She  liked  to  think  that  the  world  was 
coming  to  her,  and  she  rejoiced  in  the  pleasure  of 
waiting. 

How  should  she  have  any  presentiment  of  sorrow? 
Undoubtedly  other  people  suffered,  and  she  was 


THE  STRONGEST  77 

sincerely  upset  by  that.  But  what  were  the  misfor- 
tunes which  seem  to  come  to  others,  in  another  world, 
without  possible  effect  on  her?  At  most  an  oppor- 
tunity to  show  her  superior  generosity,  to  prove  to 
herself,  delightfully,  that  she  was  piteous  and  chari- 
table toward  the  miserable,  whom  God,  had  inten- 
tionally put  under  her  feet. 

Money  cost  her  nothing  and  she  gave  money.  She 
also  gave  compassionate  words  which  rose  to  her  lips 
since  her  heart  was  uncorrupted  with  pharisaism. 
Privations  endured  for  the  sake  of  others — the  joys 
of  sacrifice — had  no  meaning  for  her.  They  were 
texts  for  sermons,  no  doubt,  but  how  could  they 
apply  to  her  who  had  no  need  of  denying  herself  any- 
thing in  order  to  win  the  blessing  of  the  Church  and 
to  yield  to  the  will  of  the  Lord  of  the  World.  The 
rich  are  told  to  give;  the  poor,  to  be  resigned.  The 
former  give  meanly ;  the  latter  are  not  resigned.  The 
rich  often  give  to  prevent  the  want  of  resignation  in 
the  poor  from  being  fatal:  their  giving  is  not  the 
act  of  sacrifice  demanded  by  the  Man  of  Galilee. 
Greed  that  has  been  satisfied  is  on  the  defensive 
against  the  greed  that  demands  to  be  satisfied,  and 
the  war  of  the  classes  is  let  loose. 

Claudia  could  not  see  so  far  ahead.  She  thought 
sincerely  that  she  was  good  because  she  gave  and 
because  she  felt  herself  wounded  by  the  more  striking 
appearances  of  evil.  Henri's  efforts  to  lift  her  charity 
to  the  plane  of  real  compassion  seemed  to  her  to  be 


78  THE  STRONGEST 

vain  subtleties,  compared  with  the  facilities  for 
charitableness  which  her  father's  wealth  gave  her. 

By  nature  she  resisted  the  suggestions  of  class,  but 
she  was  not  strong  enough  to  rebel,  by  herself,  against 
the  hierarchy  of  the  strongest,  who  gave  out  the 
lovely  things  in  the  world.  She  was  tempted.  Her 
education  had  predisposed  her  to  accept.  She  felt 
herself  weak,  and  it  was  only  when  Puymaufray  had 
invoked  her  mother's  name  that  a  great  hope  came 
to  her.  She  had  rushed  to  his  arms  as  to  asylum. 
Without  thinking,  without  hesitation  or  regret,  she 
put  herself  in  his  hands  for  protection  against  her 
own  weakness. 

She  did  not  love  her  "father"  less,  she  thought; 
she  was  certainly  grateful  for  the  prodigious  efforts 
he  made  for  her  pleasure.  But  she  was  put  on  her 
guard  against  him  by  her  "godfather,"  and  the  very 
words  which  used  to  reassure  her  now  seemed  un- 
conscious blasphemy. 

The  comtesse  was  more  expert,  could  always  man- 
age her  tongue,  and  so  kept  her  hold  on  Claudia's 
affections.  How  could  Claudia  help  loving  her  at 
night,  when  Puymaufray  had  gone,  and  the  comtesse 
launched  into  delicate  praise  of  him,  ending  with  the 
express  advice  to  obey  him  in  everything.  This 
friendly  advice  was  received  with  such  a  burst  of 
confidence  that  the  comtesse  lost  all  hope  for  a  mo- 
ment. She  had  discovered  the  full  force  of  love  which 
was  opposed  to  her  plans.  But  she  had  on  her  side 


THE  STRONGEST  79 

youth,  beauty,  and  wealth;  enough  to  plunge  the 
sword  of  death  into  the  union  of  these  two  hearts. 

Puymaufray  was  very  happy,  and  off  his  guard. 
The  coming  trip  to  Paris  worried  him  because  the 
comtesse  was  to  be  there. 

"But,  Uncle  dear,"  said  Claudia,  "if  Mme.  la 
Comtesse  is  as  wicked  as  you  say,  how  is  it  that  the 
people  who  know  her  make  her  so  welcome?" 

"She  is  wicked  only  as  the  world  is  wicked.  Why 
should  the  world  reject  her,  Claudine?" 

"Oh,  but  the  world  can't  be  altogether  corrupt. 
There  are  good  people.  Look  how  all  the  best  people 
came  to  the  Bal  Blanc  that  made  you  so  angry.  What 
did  they  come  for?  I  don't  suppose  it  was  for  the 
glory  of  the  Fourchamps  name,  was  it?  Nor  money, 
because  the  girls  that  went  there  all  have  millions  of 
dowry." 

"Money  needs  money.  Money  attracts  money. 
Just  ask  your  papa  if  he'd  let  you  marry  a  poor  man 
unless  he  had  some  great  name." 

"So  it  is  money." 

"It's  everything.  What  you  call  'the  world'  is 
simply  a  union  of  the  strongest.  Your  papa  puts 
that  very  well.  And  when  you're  done  with  brute 
force,  money  is  the  power  which  includes  everything. 
The  old  nobility  pretended  that  they  put  a  crown  of 
chivalry  on  wealth  and  strength.  If  you  don't  look 
at  it  too  closely  it  seems  a  beautiful  dream.  What's 
left  of  it  to-day?  Richelieu  dynamited  the  chateaux 


80  THE  STRONGEST 

of  the  nobility;  Louis  XIV  ruined  his  court;  Louis  XV 
corrupted  his.  The  Revolutionists  guillotined  the 
nobility,  and,  what  was  worse,  put  it  into  their  heads 
to  call  in  aliens  against  France.  From  that  time  the 
nobility  is  nothing  but  a  memory.  It's  a  memory 
which  some  people  exploit  out  of  vainglory.  Others 
traffic  in  it  at  the  auction  sale  to  which  we  have 
reduced  marriage.  That's  why  I,  who  tell  you  this, 
am  a  Pannetier  as  well  as  a  Puymaufray.  That's 
why  your  papa  dreamed  of  making  you  the  Comtesse 
de  Hauteroche.  The  past  is  breaking  up  and  new 
groups  are  forming;  but  they  are  groups  of  the  strong- 
est— as  always.  To-day  the  strongest  are  the  rich- 
est, first  of  all;  that's  the  brutal  fact." 

"Oh,  come!    Money  isn't  everything,  Uncle." 

"Certainly  not;  it  isn't  everything.  Only  it's  too 
much.  Money  isn't  everything;  but  the  whole 
human  race  is  its  votary.  There  is  no  counter- 
balance. It  isn't  everything;  but  all  the  other  social 
powers  crowd  around  wealth;  even  those  that  pre- 
tend to  protect  mankind  are  swept  up.  They  say 
it  has  displaced  brute  force;  but  it  only  expresses 
brute  force  in  other  words.  Someone  has  said  that 
in  the  old  days  there  was  God  against  the  world's 
oppressions.  But  I  have  always  found  that  God  is 
on  the  side  of  the  strongest.  Jesus  himself  tenderly 
reproached  Him  from  the  cross." 

"Then  the  world  is  rotten?" 

"No,  my  dear.    The  trouble  is  that  the  good  are 


THE  STRONGEST  81 

isolated.  They  have  exquisite  feelings  but  not  the 
energy  to  get  together,  to  act.  The  others  get  to- 
gether by  self-interest,  by  cowardice,  by  their  hurry 
to  profit  from  every  hour.  And  so  generous  senti- 
ments find  their  place  in  the  social  system  only  if  they 
make  concessions  which  really  destroy  their  value. 
They  are  compelled  to  admit  that  the  strongest  are 
always  right.  And  yet  ordinary  hypocrisy  is  a  con- 
fession of  shame  in  the  hour  of  triumph.  That  is 
what  makes  me  optimistic  about  the  future.  I 
suppose  this  is  all  Greek  to  you.  Mme.  la  Comtesse 
and  the  mothers  that  bring  their  little  children  to  her 
parties  haven't  the  time  to  think  about  these  things, 
nor  the  ability.  They  go  to  the  strongest  by  in- 
stinct, and  their  actions  justify  themselves.  You 
have  to  swim  with  the  current.  If  you  go  against 
it  you  are  assured  of  defeat  on  earth,  with  a  doubtful 
triumph  beyond  the  grave — as  consolation." 

"You  are  hopeless,  Uncle.  Then  what  can  I  do? 
Go  into  a  convent?  Or  live  another  twenty  years 
in  the  hope  of  death?" 

"That's  true.  I  am  an  old  man  talking  to  your 
youth.  And  I  have  less  right  since  life  has  given  me 
its  loveliest.  I  am  paying;  it's  your  turn  to  live.  And 
it's  only  because  I  want  you  to  live  fully  and  nobly 
that  I  am  trying  to  save  you  from  the  universal  lie." 

"Yes,  I  understand.  But  you  yourself  said  that 
we've  got  to  respect  some  conventional  things.  I 
think  there  must  be  good  and  bad  in  everything. 


82  THE  STRONGEST 

The  world  isn't  perfect  and  Mme.  la  Comtesse  isn't  a 
heroine.  But  how  can  I  judge  humanity?  You're 
very  hard  on  people  who  come  near  me  because  you 
love  me  so  much.  Be  more  indulgent,  Daddy.  Since 
you  are  with  me  I  have  nothing  to  fear." 

"I  sha'n't  be  with  you  always.  You  will  need 
your  mother." 

Then  they  talked  long  of  Death,  and  Henri  opened 
his  heart  to  her. 

The  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps  persisted  in  her 
tactics  and  never  interrupted  these  long  conversa- 
tions. Puymaufray  was  grateful  to  her  for  that. 
Harle  was  also  pleased  for  he  had  time  to  explain  to 
her  all  his  plans  for  becoming  one  of  the  merchant 
kings  of  France.  He  had  taken  it  into  his  head  to 
have  her  visit  the  factory. 

"What  for?"  she  asked,  with  cheerful  indifference. 
"To  see  men  with  black  faces  stuck  to  horribly 
noisy  machines,  or  pasty-faced  men  stirring  some 
horrible  concoction  in  your  vats.  Don't  I  see  them 
coming  out  of  their  lair  every  night?  That's 
enough.  Napoleon  didn't  take  people  to  visit  his 
battlefields." 

"Right.  And  what  Napoleon  didn't  dare  to  do, 
I  dare.  That's  progress.  He  killed  eighty  thou- 
sand men  in  one  night  at  Moscow,  and  what  for? 
Nothing  to  boast  of  in  that!  I  give  people  life. 
That's  worth  seeing.  And  I  give  double  profit  to 
society,  because  I  let  people  earn  a  living  and  I  pro- 


THE  STRONGEST  83 

duce  something  that  spreads  civilization  every- 
where." 

"I'll  take  your  word  for  it." 

"That  isn't  enough,  madame.  I  want  to  con- 
vince your  eyes." 

"Oh,  persuade  those  who  need  persuasion.  I  do 
not." 

"But  everyone  ought  to  know!  If  you  don't 
want  to  see  the  paper  coming  off  the  rollers  and  fold- 
ing up  into  neat  little  sheets  for  you  to  write  on,  at 
least  come  down  and  see  my  cooperative  stores,  my 
workers'  cities,  and  my  charitable  institutions." 

"I  know  you  are  good.  That's  all  I  need  to  know. 
My  function  is  art,  not  industry.  We  women  are 
decorative,  my  friend — or  nothing.  Your  dividends 
are  your  affair.  Let  us  be  the  ornaments  of  your 
life,  and  nothing  else." 

But  finally  he  persuaded  her  and  the  party  was 
made  up.  Everything  in  the  factory  had  been  swept 
up  and  polished  and  cleaned,  but  the  comtesse  could 
hardly  suppress  a  movement  of  disgust.  The  woman 
of  the  world  is  popularly  supposed  to  be  at  home 
wherever  fate  may  land  her.  But  the  factory  and 
the  furrow  are  exceptions.  The  exquisite,  artificial 
flower,  on  its  wire  stem  with  silken  petals  and  velvet 
leaves,  is  dazzling,  but  it  must  be  kept  away  from 
contact  with  nature.  The  comtesse  was  more  of  a 
spectacle  to  the  factory  than  the  factory  could  be 
to  her.  She  passed  with  lowered  lids  under  the 


84  THE  STRONGEST 

ironic  silence  of  the  distant  creatures  at  whom  she 
would  not  even  look.  She  went  along,  with  little 
movements,  among  incomprehensible  things  of  iron 
or  of  flesh  and  blood,  vaguely  consoled  with  the 
thought  that  such  things  had  to  be  in  order  that  she 
might  shine  in  her  glory.  What,  to  her,  were  these 
men  begrimed  with  coal  or  with  paste? — these  fellows 
disgustingly  stained  at  the  strainer  or  foul  with 
motor  oil;  these  women,  so  prematurely  aged;  the 
girls,  the  children,  stupefied  with  the  mechanical 
grind,  twisted  into  an  eternal  repetition  of  the  same 
gesture  by  which  they  made  their  living.  No,  they 
were  nothing  to  her.  They  were  at  opposite  poles. 

Claudia  was  not  embarrassed,  for  she  was  in  daily 
contact  with  these  people,  who  smiled  and  winked 
at  her,  slily.  They  were  friends.  Dominic  was  the 
captain  at  the  helm.  His  presence  was  the  signal 
for  an  almost  military  attention.  He  was  neither 
loved  nor  hated;  they  obeyed  him.  He  asked  noth- 
ing more.  Outside  the  factory  he  was  capable  of 
being  generous;  within,  he  affected  to  be  pitilessly 
just.  There  was  no  room  for  temperaments  in  his 
chart  of  work.  Punishment  followed  swiftly  on  the 
fault.  He  allowed  appeals  and  made  reparation  if 
he  thought  that  justice  had  been  violated.  But 
even  when  he  was  merciful  he  was  so  harsh  that  no 
gratitude  ever  came  to  him. 

Li  spite  of  everything  the  workers  felt  that  Harle 
was  one  of  them,  a  friend  of  their  work,  who  was  put- 


THE  STRONGEST  85 

ting  his  effort  into  it  with  them.  "He's  part  of  the 
factory,"  they  would  say.  And  in  truth  it  wasn't 
altogether  flattery. 

Harle  tried  to  show  the  party  everything,  but  all 
that  the  comtesse  could  remember  was  that  a  tree  be- 
came paper.  It  hardly  mattered  to  her  by  what  proc- 
ess the  thing  was  accomplished. 

A  building  which  gave  off  acrid  gases  stood  out  of 
the  line  of  their  itinerary.  "What's  that?"  asked 
Deschars.  "  What  do  you  do  there?  " 

"That's  where  we  bleach  the  rags,"  said  Harle. 
"It's  chlorine  bleaching;  the  smell  is  awful  and  the 
gas  would  make  you  cough." 

As  he  spoke  the  door  opened  violently  and  a  man, 
shaken  with  a  terrible  cough,  leaped  from  the  spirals 
of  yellowish  smoke.  They  saw  him  lean  against  the 
wall,  convulsed,  his  arms  flung  over  his  face.  And  as 
he  stood  erect  again,  after  the  fit  had  passed,  a 
splash  of  bright  red  on  the  white  plaster  wall  showed 
the  habitual  blood-spitting  of  workers  in  chlorine. 
It  was  so  sudden  and  so  tragic  that  all  cried  out  at 
once. 

"How  abominable!"  moaned  Claudia.  "Isn't  it 
terrible  to  kill  people  that  way?  There  are  always 
people  ready  to  die  so  that  their  families  can  live." 

The  superintendent  who  was  accompanying  the 
visitors  had  already  come  to  the  aid  of  the  sufferer, 
who  was  led  away,  marking  his  steps  with  red 
blots. 


86  THE  STRONGEST 

"They'll  take  him  to  the  infirmary  and  give  him 
some  milk,"  said  Harle.  "I  never  let  my  men  stay 
more  than  four  consecutive  hours  in  the  gas  chamber. 
By  giving  them  plenty  of  milk — and  I  see  that  they 
have  it — I  have  had  some  who  lasted  quite  a  while, 
even  years." 

"Can't  you  get  along  without  chlorine?"  asked 
Deschars. 

"No.  I  tried  electric  bleaching  but  it  didn't  sat- 
isfy me.  For  high-quality  rags  a  bath  in  liquid 
chlorine  is  enough,  and  that's  almost  inoffensive. 
But  rough  rags  for  print  paper  have  to  have  gas. 
It's  a  nuisance,  but  you  can't  get  around  it." 

"So  we  must  resign  ourselves  to  it,"  said  the 
comtesse,  sadly. 

"Our  resignation  is  easier  to  explain  than  theirs," 
said  Puymaufray. 

"They  have  to  resign  themselves  to  the  inevit- 
able," cried  Dominic.  "And  at  that,  they  get  good 
pay.  From  four  to  five  francs  per  day." 

"Five  francs — so  as  not  to  die  of  hunger;  so  that 
they  can  die  of  chlorine  gas,"  Puymaufray  insisted. 
"How  long  does  it  take  you  to  spend  all  they  make 
in  their  little  lifetime  of  labour  for  you?" 

"That's  up  to  me.  I  get  out  of  my  factory — 
which  represents  my  work  and  the  work  of  others — 
as  much  as  I  can.  I  am  the  chief.  The  chief  doesn't 
expose  himself  to  the  risks  of  the  common  soldier. 
He  has  other  troubles;  and  other  pleasures,  if  you 


THE  STRONGEST  87 

wish.    Do  you  imagine  I  run  no  risks  in  the  battle? 
I  get  killed  another  way,  that's  all." 

"But  it's  the  way  that  counts,"  said  Claudia, 
sadly.  "I  know  that  we're  all  killing  ourselves 
every  day;  that's  life.  But  some  ways  of  killing 
yourself  are  acceptable  and  some  are  so  cruel.  Per- 
haps it  isn't  necessary  to  inhale  chlorine." 

"Yes,  it  is.  Just  as  you  have  to  go  into  the  can- 
non's mouth  when  the  day  comes." 

"But,  Papa,  even  the  soldier  has  a  chance  of  safety. 
But  here,  there's  no  future  except  death;  it's  inevit- 
able." 

"Well,  and  what  about  the  infirmary  and  the 
hospital,  and  the  aid  society?  You  had  better  come 
and  see  what  I  am  doing  for  my  people." 

And,  in  a  hurricane  of  words,  he  dragged  the 
party — suddenly  become  silent — to  the  annexes, 
where  a  wisely  organized  philanthropy  was  displayed. 
Everything  was  beautifully  arranged  from  the 
creche  to  the  morgue.  Humanity  could  go  no 
further.  All  the  arrangements  seemed  excellent. 
And  yet,  in  spite  of  Harle  fanfares,  the  visitors 
seemed  to  be  weighed  down  with  vague,  disquieting 
thoughts. 

"We're  all  silent  except  you,  my  dear  host,  but 
you  express  things  very  well,"  said  the  comtesse, 
after  a  pause.     "You  are  a  benefactor  of  mankind. 
I  hardly  needed  to  get  stained  and  dirty  to  find  that 
out." 


88  THE  STRONGEST 

"You  have  to  admit  that  I  keep  all  these  people 
alive." 

"That's  the  law  of  life.  The  poor  are  happy  be- 
cause there  are  the  rich  to  give  them  bread." 

"Well,  if  I  may  say  so,"  remarked  Puymaufray, 
with  a  smile,  "it  seems  to  me  that  they  would  get 
along  without  our  kindness  a  lot  easier  than  we  could 
do  without  their  work.  I  admit,  Dominic,  that  if  it 
weren't  for  you,  Frangois  B£ty,  whom  we  just  saw 
spitting  blood  out  there,  would  have  to  find  some- 
thing else  to  do.  But  there's  always  the  land,  open 
to  everyone.  And  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  my 
farmers  could  spare  my  generosity  while  I  should  be 
seriously  embarrassed  without  their  rent." 

"Mutual  aid,  I  know,"  answered  Harle,  crossly. 
"And  besides,  if  you  don't  work,  I  do,  and  I  don't 
spare  myself,  either." 

"Perhaps  you  expect  more  for  your  trouble  than 
your  employes  do." 

"That's  because  I  am  running  the  factory,  I  told 
you." 

"There  is  more  than  one  way  of  running " 

"Mine  is  to  demand  passive  obedience." 

*'  That's  the  simplest,  to  be  sure.  The  trouble  is 
that  the  people  nowadays  are  beginning  to  figure  out 
what  their  own  interest  is  and  then  they  say:  'We 
come  in  on  this'." 

"Yes,  that's  the  trouble.  You're  telling  the  truth 
with  your  little  joke.  I  know  better  than  they  do 


THE  STRONGEST  89 

what's  good  for  them,  and  above  all  I  know  what's 
possible." 

"They  won't  always  believe  that." 

"That  doesn't  prove  that  I'm  wrong.  I  listen  to 
them  patiently.  Sometimes  I  explain  to  the  most 
intelligent  of  them  what  I  am  doing,  and  show  them 
how  my  work  is  more  than  the  fourteen  hours  they're 
whining  about.  I  show  them  my  risks  and  their 
lack  of  responsibility.  I  tell  you  I  embarrass  them 
considerably." 

"You  won't  always  embarrass  them." 

"We'll  see.  I  laugh  when  they  come  to  me  with 
their  unions.  I  tell  them:  'My  children,  it  isn't  at 
all  what  you  think  it  is.  Get  yourselves  together  in 
one  union  against  us  and  we'll  make  a  union  against 
you.  Then  we'll  see  who's  the  stronger.'  Then  their 
heads  go  down." 

"Some  day  they'll  lift  them  up  again." 

"Then  society  must  use  the  power  it  has  to  protect 
itself." 

"Oh,  Papa,  you're  not  going  to  have  soldiers  with 
loaded  rifles  against  these  good  fellows?" 

"I'd  be  as  sorry  as  you  if  I  had  to.  But  you  will 
soon  find  out  that  force  is  the  last  resource  in  this 
world.  The  good  fellows,  as  you  call  them,  will  only 
have  to  submit.  As  for  the  others,  you  have  to 
make  them  understand  one  way  or  another." 

"If  you  didn't,"  said  the  comtesse,  "it  would  be 
the  end  of  everything.  You  can't  ask  us  to  sur- 


90  THE  STRONGEST 

render  to  the  barbarians.  We've  got  to  defend  our- 
selves." 

fel'm  not  sure  what  I  am  asking,"  said  Claudia, 
"but  I  don't  want  people  shot  for  me." 

"Even  your  godfather,  who  is  a  philanthropist, 
will  tell  you  that  you  can  only  live  at  the  expense  of 
others,"  said  Harle.  "He  just  said  that  that's  how 
he  lives.  It's  a  question  of  degree.  I  have  won 
happiness  for  you;  inevitably  the  price  included  some 
misfortunes.  But  when  you  know  what  I  have  given 
you,  you  will  have  a  proper  attitude  toward  the  un- 
happiness  which  you  know  only  through  the  ex- 
periences of  others — thanks  to  me." 

"You  understand,  Claudia,"  said  Henri,  softly. 
"That's  exactly  what  you  must  never  do.' 

The  evening  was  not  gay,  for  the  factory  obsessed 
them.  Harle  felt  that  the  comtesse  was  on  his  side, 
and  tried  to  preach  at  Claudia  under  the  pretense  of 
arguing  with  Puymaufray  or  Deschars.  He  had  set 
himself  methodically  to  killing  all  sensitiveness  in  her. 
According  to  his  ideas  of  the  future  the  girl  must  be  a 
glorious  daughter  of  the  strongest.  That  was  why 
he  had  opened  all  the  windows  that  gave  on  the  life 
of  the  world  so  that  she  would  have  ambitions  to 
satisfy.  Once  her  desires  were  aroused  he  would 
know  what  to  do.  He  held  in  his  hand  the  lever  of 
future  greatness.  Could  he  stop  in  the  arduous 
ascent  for  the  feeble  scruples  of  whining  philan- 
thropists? He  hardly  thought  so,  and  was  busy  warn- 


THE  STRONGEST  91 

ing  Claudia  against  the  "feeble  spirit"  of  her  god- 
father who,  he  said,  was  consoling  himself  for  his 
wasted  life  by  discouraging  others  from  action. 

So  Harle  developed  his  theme  of  the  struggle  for 
existence  showing  that  you  had  to  conquer  or  be 
conquered,  and  confessing  that  he  was  irresistibly 
inclined  toward  the  former.  Deschars  had  become 
astute  and  seemed  to  be  afraid  of  approving  or  con- 
tradicting. Puymaufray  alone  went  valiantly  to 
the  assault;  insisted  that  we  must  propose  peace,  not 
war;  and  that  even  in  the  thick  of  the  battle  the 
belligerents  must  conduct  themselves  in  accordance 
with  the  dictates  of  humanity.  Maliciously  he  some- 
times turned  to  the  comtesse  for  aid,  and  enjoyed 
her  embarrassment  at  being  solicited  by  both  sides. 
Claudia,  the  judge  of  the  contest,  listened  and 
spoke  her  doubts. 

"I'm  like  Uncle,"  she  said,  "I  wish  it  were  possible 
to  moderate  this  struggle  between  conflicting  inter- 
ests. I  think  Uncle  is  right  when  he  said  that  all  the 
power  is  in  our  hands." 

"What  you  mean  is  that  you  want  your  enemy 
to  be  stronger  so  that  he  can  hit  back  harder." 

"No,  if  I  wish  that  the  enemy  were  stronger,  it  is 
because  I  wish  that  we  weren't  tempted  to  abuse  our 
strength." 

"Doyou'think,then/that  I  am  abusing  my  power? 
Do  you  think  that  that  whole  organization  of  charity 
which  I  just  showed  you  is  a  malicious  tyranny?" 


92  THE  STRONGEST 

"I  know  that  it  is  a  good  thing.  Only,  Papa  dear, 
you're  the  only  one  who  has  the  right  to  say  how 
much  each  one  shall  get,  and  you  know  that  you  put 
conditions  on  your  charity.  Perhaps  your  men  would 
like  to  have  a  word  to  say  about  that." 

"Oh,  ho!  so  you  want  them  to  get  more  of  my 
share?  Isn't  it  enough  for  the  Government  to  think 
always  of  ruining  me  with  its  taxes  and  regulations 
of  industry  and  all  sorts  of  vexations  which  are 
passed  every  day  by  people  whose  least  trouble  is 
that  they  don't  know  anything  about  their  business? 
Where  is  it  going  to  stop?  They  are  going  to  kill 
all  initiative.  They  are  going  to  kill  liberty  and 
destroy  the  possibility  and  the  desire  to  get  rich. 
Everybody  will  be  ruined.  Then  there  will  be  noth- 
ing but  poor  people.  That's  progress  for  you!" 

"You'll  see  that  we  shall  escape  that  catastrophe,'* 
said  Puymaufray,  "but  I  admit  that  we  can't  assure 
the  liberty  of  the  workers  without  cutting  into  yours, 
because  your  liberty  means  using  them  for  your  pur- 
pose.5' 

"My  liberty  asks  nothing  but  what  it  can  take. 
My  workers  are  free  to  save,  to  organize  cooperative 
societies,  to  establish  banks,  and  join  unions  against 


me." 


"Well,  don't  you  always  tell  them  that  if  they  form 
unions  against  you,  you  will  form  a  stronger  union 
against  them?" 

"Undoubtedly.    However,  they'll  have  the  chance 


THE  STRONGEST  93 

of  a  fight.  Can  you  deny  that  for  the  last  fifty  years 
we  have  been  helping  them  and  making  their  situa- 
tion better?" 

"Absolutely  right.  But  all  of  those  things'which 
may  be  some  good  later  on  are  now  in  the  hands  of 
the  masters,  and  give  him  only  another  hold  over 
their  lives.  And  the  struggle  for  life  puts  them  all 
in  your  power.'5 

"That's  because  they  are  all  ignorant,  undisci- 
plined, incapable  of  getting  along  themselves.  They 
don't  even  know  how  to  use  the  tools  that  we  gener- 
ously hand  over  to  them.  Do  you  know  why  they 
are  so  weak?  "Ah,  now  we're  getting  virtue  mixed 
up  in  this.  What  do  you  think  if  it,  comtesse,  with 
your  knowledge  of  the  world?" 

"I  think,  my  dear  marquis,  that  the  vices  of  the 
people  are  very  disgusting." 

"Very  well,  that's  the  last  word  in  modern  philos- 
ophy. There  is  nothing  else  to  say.  The  vices  of 
the  crowd  are  our  vices,  but  without  our  elegance. 
We  are  distinguished  by  the  manner  of  our  dissipa- 
tion or  drunkenness.  We  are  indulgent  or  severe 
according  to  who  it  is.  It's  a  fine  thing  for  us  to 
have  every  pleasure  that  is  allowed  or  condemned, 
and  then  to  heap  scorn  on  those  that  don't  know 
how  to  clothe  their  vices  decently!" 

"There  is  something  else,"  hazarded  the  comtesse; 
"  these  people  are  gross ;  you  can't  deny  that.  They're 
strangers  to  our  refinements  of  joy  and  pain,  and  they 


94  THE  STRONGEST 

don't  feel  happiness  or  unhappiness  as  we  do.  They're 
of  a  different  world/' 

"Do  you  think  so?  My  ancestors,  if  I've  got  the 
story  correctly,  might  be  excused  for  thinking  that 
there  were  two  kinds  of  people  on  earth.  But, 
sinpeLthe  Revolution,  that  seems  rather  difficult  to 
prove.  The  Third  Estate  believed  in  good  faith  that 
they  wanted  universal  justice  on  earth.  But  they 
very  soon  saw  that  ours  was  a  good  place  to  take  and 
that  seemed  enough.  And  the  only  revenge  we 
could  see  was  to  make  ourselves  bourgeois  like  our 
conquerors,  to  get  back  some  of  the  things  they  stole 
from  us;  not  to  mention  doing  a  little  robbing  on  our 
own  account.  And  now,  look  at  the  people,  full  of 
the  sentiments  of  the  old  bourgeoisie,  who  want  noth- 
ing more  than  to  become  bourgeois  themselves. 
Well,  all  that  seems  to  me  to  be  pretty  much  one 
world.  The  same  necessity  for  having  and  holding; 
and  the  only  difference  is  in  the  means.  The  con- 
trast seems  to  shock  pretty  ladies.  I  know  that  ele- 
ments are  fused  every  day.  But  Dominic  taught 
me  that  under  the  changing  names,  through  the  revo- 
lution, one  thing  remains,  the  invincible  union  of 
the  strongest,  who,  no  matter  where  they  come  from, 
recognize  one  another  as 'being  'the  world '  and  find 
that  that  justifies  them  in  setting  themselves  up 
above  the  others  who  are  nothing." 

"There  ought  to  be  a  place  for  everyone,"  said 
Claudia,  "but  how?  In  my  visits  to  the  poor  I  find 


THE  STRONGEST  95 

some  that  are  resigned,  like  beasts  of  burden.  Others 
flatter  me  and  think  they  will  please  my  by  crawling 
at  my  feet.  And  there  are  some  with  bad  eyes  who 
reproach  me  mutely  with  vague  threats,  and  I  some- 
times think  that,  if  I  were  in  their  place,  I  would  be  a 
rebel.  When  I  hear  them  cry  'our  miseries  are  too 
much  for  us,  miss,'  I  know  that  what  they  mean  is 
'give  us  a  little  more  place  in  the  sun.'  I  look  for  an 
answer  but  I  never  find  one.  So  I  give  money.  Uncle 
is  right;  it  isn't  worth  anything,  because  we  have  to 
begin  all  over  again  the  next  day,  and  I  myself  am 
not  enough.  So  I'm  discontented  with  myself  and 
with  others.  And  then  I  forget.  My  life  is  so  easy, 
so  beautiful.  If  I  were  to  give  up  my  pleasures,  it 
wouldn't  change  anything,  so  I  live  like  the  dog  that 
is  bringing  his  master  dinner,  I  snap  up  my  bite  of 
happiness.  Am  I  wrong,  Uncle?" 

"It  is  not  your  duty  to  bring  the  reign  of  eternal 
justice  on  earth,  my  dear.  Only  keep  alive  this  feel- 
ing of  the  wrong  done  by  Fate,  and  your  life  will  be 
illumined  and  warmed  with  acts  of  kindness.  You 
will  discover  reality  and  you  will  learn  the  joy  of 
giving  a  little  of  yourself  to  those  who  have  fallen. 

"Good  will  prevail,"  said  Deschars,  "only 
forms  of  evil  are  so  numerous  and  widespread  that  I 
each  man  by  himself  thinks  he  is  powerless,  and  de- J 
spairs." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Harle,  bringing  the  discussion 
to  an  end,  "we've  all  got  to  live  on  the  principle  of 


96  THE  STRONGEST 

'Do  what  you  can,'  my  dear  Henri.  That's  what  I 
am  doing.  I  develop  myself  according  to  my  abili- 
ties. If  I  need  a  greater  field  of  activity  than  others, 
it  is  because  I  have  a  greater  power  to  grow.  I  say 
it  without  false  modesty." 

"And  what  will  you  do  with  this  power?" 
"I'll  find  glory  for  myself,  happiness  for  Claudia, 
and  even,  if  you  wish,  solace  for  those  who  owe  it 
to  me  that  they're  making  a  living  by  their  work  and 


mine." 


"  Fulfill  your  destiny,  then,  my  dear  Dominic.  May 
your  glory  and  Claudia's  happiness  and  the  benefits 
that  you  are  spreading  be  as  great  as  I  wish  them  to 
be." 


CHAPTER  VI 

PARIS  was  calling  the  Comtesse  de  Four- 
champs.  She  knew  little  more  than  on  the 
day  she  had  come,  but  at  least  the  battle  was 
engaged  and  she  had  increased  her  advantages.  Her 
authority  over  Claudia  held  firm  against  Henri's 
efforts.  That  was  the  great  lever  to  move  every- 
thing afterward.  She  knew  that  Harle  was  at  her 
mercy.  Henri,  sure  of  Claudia,  was  less  watchful, 
and  was  even  disarmed  by  the  little  courtesies  which 
he  knew  were  insincere,  but  which  still  had  their 
effect. 

Like  all  conquerors,  the  comtesse  undoubtedly 
exaggerated  her  power.  Although  she  had  not  yet 
pierced  Puymaufray's  armour,  she  considered  herself 
victorious,  and  only  wondered  how  far  she  would  care 
to  push  her  game.  Instinctively  she  made  a  deduc- 
tion on  Deschars's  account.  She  wanted  him  in 
Paris  so  as  to  expose  his  possible  pretensions  to 
Claudia's  hand  and  compel  him  to  risk  battle  in  the 
open  and  at  his  disadvantage. 

"My  dear  sir,"  she  said  to  him,  "you  can't  im- 
agine how  grateful  I  am  to  you  for  not  having  any 
stories  to  tell.  The  traveller  that  has  seen  nothing 

97 


98  THE  STRONGEST 

is  a  rare  bird.  Only  I  can't  admit  that  you  can  put 
Paris  and  Benares  on  the  same  level.  A  trip  around 
the  Place  de  1'Etoile  is  just  as  strange,  perhaps,  and 
although  I  have  no  right  to  make  comparisons,  I  dare 
say  it  is  more  amusing.  Don't  ^ou  want  to  come  and 
try  it?" 

"Madame,  all  that  I  remember  of  my  travels  is 
that  gestures  change  according  to  the  latitude,  but 
express  the  same  human  appetites,  excited  by  self- 
ishness or  restrained  by  generosity.  I  have  made  a 
rather  wide  circle  around  the  Place  de  1'Etoile  and 
I  have  seen  many  spectacles  under  many  skies,  but 
I've  always  been  chiefly  astonished  by  the  variety 
of  the  settings.  So  I  cheerfully  admit  that  the 
Champs-Elysees  are  as  dangerous  as  the  jungle. 
There  are  Hindus  who  take  pleasure  in  seeing  a  man 
go  out  against  a  tiger.  You  will  have  none  of  these 
cruelties." 

"I  believe  that  you  are  capable  of  going  out  your- 
self, but  I'd  rather  see  you  at  grips  with  our  own 
monsters." 

"The  pleasure  of  the  Romans,  in  turning  down 
their  thumbs?" 

"We  are  Christians,  sir." 

"True,  we  have  changed  the  signs." 

"And  our  feelings,  too,  if  you  please." 

"Then  I'll  have  the  pleasure  of  finding  that  out, 
madame,  and  I  anticipate  it  with  joy." 

In  fact,  Deschars's  eagerness  to  follow  Puymau- 


THE  STRONGEST  99 

fray  made  the  lady  think  that  her  invitation  was  su- 
perfluous. Her  vague  suppositions  about  Claudia 
were  confirmed.  Most  searching  observation  had 
shown  her  nothing;  the  young  people  seemed  to  be 
in  each  other's  confidence,  but  nothing  else.  The 
trial  of  Paris  was  to  prove. 

Nanette  came  sadly  to  wish  the  comtesse  bon 
voyage.  "I'm  angry  at  you,  madame,  for  taking 
Monsieur  Henri,  but  it  is  for  his  good.  When  you 
get  him,  keep  him  a  long  time.  Loneliness  makes 
him  sad.  If  you  could  only  make  him  recover  his 
taste  for  Paris,  he  would  be  as  young  and  gay  as  he 
used  to  be." 

'Til  do  my  best,  Nanette." 

And  so  the  countess  left  Radegonde. 

Two  days  later  Baron  Oppert  came  back  from  his 
hunting  in  Galicia.  As  soon  as  he  was  back,  Harle 
went  up  to  Paris.  He  was  possessed  by  the  thought 
of  a  prodigious  industrial  development.  A  simple 
idea,  but  very  grand.  A  stroke  of  genius,  the  success 
of  which,  together  with  the  indefinite  growth  of  his 
factory,  would  give  him  such  power  in  society  that 
he  could  hardly  think  of  it  without  getting  dizzy. 
The  paper-maker  had  opened  his  mind  to  the  baron, 
who  frankly  showed  his  wonder  at  such  a  noble 
conception.  Samuel  Oppert,  whose  affection  (pa- 
ternal henceforth)  for  the  countess  led  him  into 
making  confidences,  had  told  her  of  Harle's  plans, 


100  THE  STRONGEST 

and  had  thereby  deeply  affected  her  strategy  at  Ste. 
Radegonde.  When  a  man  like  the  baron  declared 
that  Harle  was  his  equal,  who  could  resist  the  tempta- 
tion to  take  a  part  in  the  game? 

While  he  was  away  hunting,  the  financier  thought 
over  the  matter,  and  decided  to  put  all  his  energy  into 
iti  Harle,  after  having  carefully  considered  all  the 
chances  in  the  combination,  felt  his  enthusiasm 
growing  with  the  aid  of  the  great  Oppert,  and  was 
eager  to  act.  When  he  told  Puymaufray  that  his 
great  enterprise  was  taking  shape,  and  that  its  in- 
evitable success  would  put  him  far  above  the  vul- 
gar ranks  of  the  money  kings,  Henri  could  not  help 
trembling  for  Claudia.  How  could  he  snatch  her 
away  from  all  this  royalty?  Henri  needed  only 
memories  of  his  own  youth  to  realize  the  risks  his 
beloved  child  would  run.  He  tried  to  make  her 
understand,  repeating  what  he  had  already  said,  re- 
newing his  warnings,  which  were  useless  because 
they  were  only  theories.  What  influence  could  these 
bitter,  disillusioned  lectures  have  on  a  child  who  was 
eager  for  the  satisfactions  of  life? 

"Uncle,"  she  said,  to  make  an  end,  "I  love  you. 
What  more  do  you  need?  Since  you  love  me,  be- 
lieve in  me,  as  I  believe  in  you." 

He  found  nothing  to  say. 

After  Radegonde  was  empty,  Henri  waited  fifteen 
long  days  in  the  charm  of  his  old  house,  haunted  by 


THE  STR6N6EST;  .J]  101 

Claire's  spirit.  He  was  afraid  trf  Paris,  but  Ke  could 
give  himself  no  account  of  his  fears.  He  was  com- 
forted by  the  thought  that  Maurice  Deschars  would 
be  with  him.  Not  that  he  could  expect  advice  or 
aid  from  this  companion,  since  it  was  impossible  to 
open  his  heart,  but  the  force  of  love  is  such  that 
even  a  useless  friendship,  by  its  mere  presence,  ex- 
cites all  one's  energies  as  by  an  electric  current. 

The  two  men  went  riding  through  the  woods  and, 
brought  close  by  obscure  emotions,  searched_each 
other  out,  and  attempted  uncertain  approaches  to 
those  things  that  were  hidden  in  the  depths.  For 
each  had  his  secret.  Puymaufray's  was  buried  for- 
ever in  impenetrable  mystery.  The  other  one's  was 
pressing  toward  the  light  of  day. 

Deschars  was  timid,  but  one  day,  on  a  walk 
through  the  sand  pits,  he  mustered  up  courage  to 
speak. 

"My  dear  marquis,"  he  began,  "I  want  to  tell  you 
something  in  confidence,  and  ask  your  sincere  advice. 
You  have  known  me  since  childhood;  you've  seen 
me  grow  up  among  these  farmers,  and  you've  fre- 
quently given  me  the  benefit  of  your  experience. 
I've  just  come  back  from  a  long  absence,  but  I  can 
say  candidly  that  I  am  still  the  man  you  knew,  and — 
I  venture  to  say — loved.  I've  travelled  in  many 
countries,  and  if  I  haven't  learned  much,  at  least  I 
know  how  people  on  earth  live  and  that  has  given 
me  a  fair  sense  of  proportion.  My  ambition  is  to 


102    .t  :    , ...  $$£'  STRONGEST 

live  usefully,  if  *I  c&hVVhctT  believe  that  that  is  not 
so  hard  as  people  think.  For  there  is  evil  every- 
where, and  though  there  are  plenty  of  efforts  to  do 
good,  they  are  always  discordant." 

"That  is  a  calamity." 

"Yes,  but  I've  a  whole  life  in  front  of  me.  I'm 
rich.  For  a  country  squire,  I  am  very  rich.  My 
fortune  was  amassed  by  excellent  people  who  never 
found  tune  to  live  when  they  were  on  earth,  and  now 
I  want  to  put  their  money  to  use  which  may  justify 
then*  miserliness.  I  said  that  the  efforts  to  do  good 
were  disorganized.  Can't  I  coordinate  them?  That 
would  be  enough  to  satisfy  my  ambition.  Haven't 
you  told  me  a  hundred  times  that  the  noblest  dream 
was  to  build  a  house  on  the  cornerstone  of  love? 
Why  cannot  I  live  this  dream?  Why  shouldn't  I 
try  it  after  so  many  others?  Many  have  failed,  I 
know,  but — without  false  modesty,  and  only  judg- 
ing by  my  intentions — I  dare  to  say  that  I  am  worthy 
to  succeed." 

"Bravo,  my  dear  Maurice,  I  can't  tell  you  how 
glad  I  am  to  hear  you  talk  that  way.  You  give  me 
back  my  youth." 

"And  what  will  you  say  if  I  tell  you  that  I  love 
your  Claudia,  and  that  I  want  to  give  her  my  name 
and  my  life?" 

"You?" 

"Yes,  I.  Your  astonishment  is  the  answer,  isn't 
it?" 


THE  STRONGEST  103 

"No,  I  am  surprised,  that's  all.  You've  been 
away  for  two  years.  It's  true,  you  knew  Claudia 
from  childhood,  but  I  never  saw  anything  which 
would  prepare  me  for  this.  And  here  you  drop 
down  from  the  Himalayas  to  tell  me  that  you  love 
her.  You've  only  been  here  six  weeks.  I  don't 
think  I've  been  asleep,  but  I  haven't  seen  any- 
thing." 

"I  expected  you  to  say  that.  Shall  I  say  that  I 
was  in  love  when  I  went  away?  I  don't  know.  I 
was  already  drawn  to  her  irresistibly.  Neither  you 
nor  she  suspected  anything.  With  all  my  adven- 
turous airs,  I  am  not  daring  where  women  are  con- 
cerned. The  mystery  of  this  new  feeling  made  me 
more  timid  still,  and  then  I  wanted  to  conquer  my- 
self. Harle  with  his  millions,  his  ideas  of  greatness 
stood  up  before  me,  the  barrier  that  could  not  be 
passed,  and  I'm  afraid  this  obstacle  has  only  grown 
greater  with  time.  She  herself  knew  nothing.  To 
tell  the  truth,  her  ways  of  feeling  and  speaking  often 
shocked  and  wounded  me.  I  had  already  travelled. 
This  time  I  decided  to  be  absent  a  long  time.  I 
have  come  back.  Not  from  dragging  my  tragedy 
all  over  the  world;  no.  But  I  am  bringing  back  the 
torment  of  a  man  who  has  left  the  better  part  of 
himself  in  the  changing  eyes  of  a  woman  far  away, 
I  see  her  again.  I  find  she  is  more  beautiful,  more 
noble,  with  a  new  heart  and  soul.  And  I  know  that 
it  is  due  to  you,  who  love  her.  I  love  her." 


104  THE  STRONGEST 

"And  you  could  pretend  to  be  indifferent,  to  fool 
me,  and  keep  Claudia  herself  in  ignorance?" 

"I  had  to  throw  Mme.  la  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps 
off  the  track.  If  that  woman  knew  my  secret,  I 
should  be  lost." 

"Yes,  you  have  done  well,  but  you  and  Claudia 
are  both  too  dear  to  me.  I  must  clear  the  road  for 
you.  Harle  is  nothing  but  a  piece  of  ambitious  ma- 
chinery, blindly  dashing  forward,  crushing  every- 
thing in  his  way.  You,  my  poor  friend,  are  not 
even  in  his  way.  To  him  you  are  nothing.  What 
would  he  care  for  your  honesty  and  candour  and 
goodness?  Your  plan  of  life  would  make  him 
laugh.  What  have  you  brought  back  from  your 
travels  to  help  him  up  the  social  ladder?  Nothing. 
You  are  a  passer-by,  useless,  a  dreamer.  All  he'll 
ask  of  you  is  to  get  out  of  his  way.  I  don't  say  that 
he  can  make  his  daughter  take  the  man  whom  he 
chooses.  But  he  is  certainly  strong  enough  to 
prevent  her  from  accepting  any  one.  Of  course,  I 
make  an  exception  for  a  great  passion." 

"And  she?" 

"We  must  win  her.  Even  I,  who  know  her  and 
love  her,  am  hard  pressed  to  tell  you  how.  She  is 
good,  but  she  is  sometimes  weak  and  gives  in  to 
suggestions  of  the  terrible  people  around  her.  She 
resists  courageously ;  then  she  yields.  Circumstances 
are  very  powerful  against  the  will  of  the  young. 
Claudia  frequently  wants  to  do  the  right  thing  and 


THE  STRONGEST  105 

can't,  or  lets  herself  be  turned  away  by  the  temp- 
tations of  her  frivolous  life.  She  doesn't  understand 
the  harm  her  father's  millions  are  doing  her — and  her 
father  himself,  although  he  loves  her  in  his  fashion. 
It's  not  surprising.  She  isn't  old  enough  for  the 
profound  love  that  comes  from  common  suffering. 
Worldly  pleasures  attract  this  lovely  child,  and  with- 
draw her  far  from  the  natural  emotions  of  her  heart. 
The  world  will  be  your  enemy,  my  dear  Maurice, 
as  it  has  been  mine.  For  you  have  guessed  the  truth. 
It  is  I  who  have  changed  her  from  what  she  was. 
All  I  needed  to  do  was  to  bring  her  back  to  herself. 
Selfishness  could  not  grow  in  that  generous  soul. 
Unfortunately,  they  satiated  her  with  everything 
before  she  could  understand  anything.  All  she  is 
curious  about  now  is  the  splendour  and  movement 
of  power.  I  saved  Claudia  simply  by  loving  her. 
Now  we  must  protect  her.  Do  not  fool  yourself. 
She  is  surrounded  by  greed.  The  appetite  for  great 
dowries  has  killed  in  our  young  people  all  ambition 
to  act.  A  good  marriage  is  for  them  the  fall  of  the 
loaded  dice  by  which  they  gain  joy  and  honour,  the 
respect  of  the  envious,  and  the  esteem  of  the  power- 
less. Gamblers  are  bold  men.  Are  you  fit  for  this 
game?  I  will  be  at  your  side,  you  may  be  sure. 
You  knew  that  before  you  spoke,  didn't  you?  But 
there  is  only  one  thing,  and  that  is  to  make  her  love 
you.  And  what  can  a  child  like  Claudia  know  of 
love?" 


106  THE  STRONGEST 

"But  surely  her  heart  must  wake." 

"Yes,  and  with  all  my  heart  I  hope  it  will  be  to 
your  call/* 

"Who  knows?    Love  can  awaken  love." 

"I've  seen  that.  Your  chance  would  be  fine  at 
Ste.  Radegonde.  In  Paris  with  millions,  and  at 
twenty!  I  don't  know." 

"And  the  power  of  truth?" 

"And  the  greater  power  of  falsehood?" 

"For  a  day!" 

"Undoubtedly.  But  we  are  the  creatures  of  a 
day." 

"And  what  about  my  will?  Have  I  fought  for 
two  years  against  myself  to  let  myself  be  beaten  now 
without  a  struggle?" 

"You  will  fight  gallantly,  I  am  sure.  We  will 
fight  side  by  side,  and  I  will  not  spare  myself,  for  I 
would  die  happy  if  I  left  in  your  hands  what  is 
dearest  to  me.  However,  do  not  under-estimate 
the  forces  of  the  world.  Everything  that  can 
touch  Claudia  will  be  against  you,  except  myself. 
That  is  your  chance,  my  friend.  But  you're  of 
a  generation  that  talks  and  doesn't  act.  It  isn't 
much  better  than  the  disorder  of  my  own  time. 
Come,  leave  dreams  behind  and  live  your  love. 
I  will  help  you  if  you  help  yourself.  Into  the 
battle!" 

"I  will  be  worthy  of  your  help." 

"That's  nothing.    We  must  win  Claudia.    All 


THE  STRONGEST  107 

I  can  do  is  to  fight  against  the  enemy.  Meanwhile, 
you  must  make  her  love  you." 

"I'll  try/' 

"Weakness.  I  hoped  that  you  would  say:  'I 
will  make  her  love  me*. " 

"  Very  well,  then :    I  will  make  her  love  me." 

"Here  is  my  hand.  May  the  day  come  when  there 
will  be  three  of  us." 

Puymaufray  was  filled  with  joy  and  confidence 
for  he  feared  nothing  more  than  the  crisis  of  marriage. 
Deschars's  true  and  simple  love  made  him  supremely 
hopeful.  They  were  two  now  in  the  work  of  salva- 
tion. However,  he  was  not  blind  to  the  difficulties 
in  their  way.  In  spite  of  him,  and  in  spite  of  herself, 
Claudia  had  turned  toward  another  conception  of 
life.  What  horizons  would  the  Simple  love  of  the 
bourgeois  country  squire  open  before  her,  when  on 
every  side  she  would  be  tempted  by  offers  to  rule  over 
Paris?  Undoubtedly  she  would  come  back  to  the 
protecting  wing  of  her  godfather,  who  might  save 
her  from  these  vulgar  calculations.  But  what  a 
contrast  between  the  apparent  monotony  of  quiet 
happiness  and  the  fairy  dreams  of  the  world !  Henri 
reflected,  and  tried  to  compute  his  strength.  He 
returned  to  the  thought  of  Claire;  he  was  supported 
by  the  advice  of  Nanette. 

"How  fortunate,"  said  she,  "that  our  Claudia 
should  be  loved  by  this  fine  man  whom  we  ourselves 
have  always  loved.  The  good  God  in  heaven  owed 


.108  THE  STRONGEST 

us  that.  Long  ago  I  thought  I  was  discovering 
something,  but  when  he  went  away  and  stayed  in 
savage  countries,  I  thought  I  must  have  been  mis- 
taken. And  then  he  comes  back,  just  in  time,  I  say. 
Only  he  must  speak;  he  must  show  himself.  I 
thought  that  he  was  hiding,  and  I  asked  myself: 
'What's  wrong  with  him?'" 

''Nothing  wrong,  Nanette,  except  that  profound 
love  is  timid.  The  other  kind  is  eloquent  and  skilful 
and  has  all  the  chances  of  victory." 

"That's  why  so  many  women  are  deceived." 

"Yes,"  said  Henri. 5  "And  for  many  other  reasons 
besides."  r 

"As  many  as  you  like,"  agreed  Nanette.  "Only  all 
I  say  is  that  M.  Deschars  had  better  be  active,  or 
all  your  preachings  won't  do  him  any  good." 

"I  told  him  so.  His  ambitions  are  not  going  to 
dazzle  Claudia.  He'll  have  to  make  her  love  him, 
and  that  will  need  some  effort  with  the  young  prin- 
cess, who  is  always  having  incense  burned  before  her. 
Pe'rhaps  Maurice  is  a  little  bit  rusty,  but  I  am  sure 
his  energy  will  come  back  as  soon  as  he  sees  his  first 
rival.  And  besides,  I  have  seen  many  who  tortured 
themselves  at  night  and  were  bravest  under  fire  the 
next  day." 

"Good.  Only  beware  of  the  comtesse.  That 
woman  has  different  ideas  which  we  don't  know. 
She  has  begun  by  taking  you  to  Paris  under  her 
hand." 


THE  STRONGEST  109 

"If  I  had  to  do  it  to  save  Claudia,  I  would  unmask 
her,"  declared  Henri. 

"That's  what  you  say.  But  when  you  come  to  do 
it,  it  may  be  too  late.  What  can  you  say  about  her 
to  people  who  know  her  better  than  you  do?  The 
strong  need  the  strong,  as  M.  Harle  says.  They  for- 
give one  another  everything." 

"I  will  do  what  has  to  be  done,  but  I  will  get 
Claudia  away  from  her.  And  Maurice  comes  just 
at  the  right  time  for  that." 

"I  don't  like  the  thought  of  your  struggling  far 
away  from  me.  One  day  I  may  drop  in  on  you." 

"And  surely  if  I  ask  you  to?" 

A  letter  from  Claudia  allayed  all  the  disquiet  at 
Puymaufray.  She  wrote: 

Do  come,  Uncle  dear.  You've  spoiled  me  too  much 
with  love.  I  find  life  stupid  without  your  gentle  scolding. 
Come,  you  will  not  be  bored.  Papa  won't  have  time  to 
quarrel  with  you  because  he  is  spending  day  and  night 
with  Baron  Oppert.  Busy,  it  seems,  preparing  something 
which  will  bring  the  Grand  Mogul  to  my  feet.  The  poten- 
tate will  not  be  alone  there — if  I  am  to  judge  by  the  ardour 
of  poetic  youth,  which  is  burning  around  me  with  the  purest 
flame.  What  can  all  this  disinterested  homage  mean? 
I  ask  you.  At  first  I  thought  of  the  great  beauty  of  my 
soul — of  the  soul  I  would  have — if  I  listened  to  my  uncle. 
But  I  am  told  that  that  is  not  enough,  there  must  be  some- 
thing else. 

If  my  eyes  aren't  open,  it's  not  the  fault  of  Mme.  la 


110  THE  STRONGEST 

Comtesse,  who  is  a  perfect  friend  to  me.  It  seems  so 
wonderful  that  her  advice  resembles  yours  so  much.  I 
can't  help  telling  her  so  sometimes;  she  laughs  and  seems 
happy.  Uncle,  you  work  miracles. 

What  isn't  a  miracle,  is  that  I  love  you  above  all.  I 
would  be  the  most  miserable  ingrate  if  I  didn't.  But 
just  because  you  know  that  I  will  not  change,  is  that  a  rea- 
son for  abandoning  me  much  longer  to  the  adoring  enter- 
prises of  which  I  am  the  victim?  Please  have  pity  on  a 
poor  deserted  divinity  who  needs  your  help. 

Ask  M.  Deschars  to  make  Nanette  lend  me  the  mag- 
nificence of  India  with  which  he  was  going  to  clothe  her. 
I  think  I  will  need  it  this  spring.  I  kiss  you,  Uncle  dear, 
and  Nanette. 

This  letter,  read  to  Deschars,  was  a  trumpet  call. 
He  left,  mad  with  hope  and,  embracing  his  friend, 
whispered:  "Au  revoir,  father,"  which  made  Puy- 
maufray  tremble  with  joy. 

A  strange  thing.  Every  day  Henri  discovered 
some  new  reasons  for  delaying  his  departure.  What 
could  hold  him  back,  when  Claudia  was  calling  him, 
when  after  long  despair  everything  seemed  to  foretell 
the  success  of  the  supreme  effort?  In  spite  of  him- 
self, the  chateau,  the  village,  the  woods,  the  roads, 
all  these  silent  witnesses  of  the  spirit  which  had 
departed,  held  him  imbedded  like  a  stone  in  the  soil, 
refused  to  give  him  back  to  the  living.  It  was  here 
that  Claire  had  lived,  here  that  they  had  loved,  here 
that  the  same  blow  had  struck  both  of  them  down. 


THE  STRONGEST  111 

He  could  not  leave  the  spot  without  a  struggle.  But 
finally  the  day  of  his  departure  was  fixed. 

Pierre  Quete,  very  solemn,  and  his  brother  Jean, 
Harle's  superintendent,  came  to  bid  him  good-bye. 
"We  couldn't  let  you  go,  Monsieur  Henri,  without 
coming  down  to  shake  hands." 

"Thanks,  Pierre;  and  you,  Jean;  you  are  good 
friends,  I  am  glad  to  pass  my  last  evening  with  you." 

They  sat  down  before  the  fireplace. 

' '  Monsieur  Henri, ' '  said  the  superintendent.  "  You 
weren't  angry  with  me  the  other  day  for  keeping  out 
of  your  way  when  you  were  marching  around  the 
factory?" 

"I  know  you,  Jean.  I  knew  that  you  weren't  tak- 
ing any  risks." 

"Oh,  it  was  fine.  The  boss  seemed  very  well 
satisfied.  I  heard  him  saying  to  the  lady:  *I  make 
this.  I  make  that.'  And  I  thought  to  myself  'JFtf're 
making  something,  too'." 

"Oh,  come.  No  one  imagines  he  makes  paper  all 
by  himself.  He  meant  to  say  VeV 

"I  know  it,  M'sieur  Henri.     Only  he  always  says 

«T»    >J 

"The  same  as  you,  Jean.  You  have  your  grapes 
brought  in  and  then  you  say:  'I'm  making  wine'." 

"Why,  that's  true,"  said  the  other,  laughing.  "I 
didn't  know  I  was  a  boss." 

"You  see,  we're  never  wounded  except  by  the  sel- 
fishness of  others." 


THE  STRONGEST 

"That's  possible.  But  there  is  Pierre.  He  is  a 
boss,  too,  down  at  the  smithy.  The  men  that  work 
for  him  are  his  friends.  They  live  the  same  life,  have 
the  same  ideas,  and  pull  at  the  same  yoke.  It's  not 
that  way  between  M.  Harle  and  us!" 

"Big  and  little  in  that  case,  I  suppose." 

"Exactly.  He  is  very  big  and  we  are  very  small. 
We  have  different  interests,  or  even  opposite  ones, 
and  our  feelings  follow  our  interests.  You  say  that 
we  are  all  making  paper.  Well,  and  who  makes  the 
division  of  profits?  M.  Harle  is  all  '/'  when  it  comes 
to  that.  There  is  a  story  about  that:  a  lion  that 
divides  the  quarry  with  his  hunting  companions  and 
gives  himself  all  the  good  pieces." 

"And  what  about  you,  Pierre?"  said  Henri;  "do 
you  let  your  people  fix  their  own  wages?" 

"No,  but  they  fight  about  them,  just  the  same- 
nd  then  they  see  that  I  am  not  making  hundreds 
and  thousands  out  of  them,  like  M.  Harle.  I 
don't  suppose  I  would  be  any  better  than  any- 
body else.  I  suppose  I  am  not  big  enough  to  do  any 
harm." 

"That's  just  it,"  said  the  superintendent.  "My 
brother  is  one  with  his  men.  They  stick  close  to 
each  other.  There  isn't  room  for  so  much  injustice, 
and  it's  easier  to  understand  each  other.  And  then, 
just  because  Pierre  puts  his  money  down  on  the  table 
on  pay  day,  he  doesn't  think  that  he  is  a  benefactor 
of  the  whole  world.  To  hear  M.  Harle  speak,  you 


THE  STRONGEST  113 

would  think  he  was  St.  Vincent  de  Paul.  Is  he  a 
manufacturer  of  paper,  because  he  wants  to  make 
money,  or  because  he  wants  to  give  it  away?  If  it's 
to  give  away,  why  does  he  keep  as  much  as  he  can  for 
himself?  If  it's  to  make  money,  why  is  he  always 
telling  us  about  his  favours?  The  only  time  he  is 
really  sincere  is  when  he  says:  *I  am  the  strongest'. 
All  right,  let  him  be — until  the  time  when  strength 
will  be  on  the  other  side." 

"And  how  will  you  accomplish  that,  friend  Jean?" 

"  I  won't  do  it.  Nor  anybody  else.  It  will  be  the 
whole  world.  I  don't  know  how.  Everybody  to- 
gether will  get  the  better  of  the  few.  Don't  you  see 
everywhere  that  people  are  growing?  That's  all 
we  need.  When  they  get  the  idea  of  bossing  them- 
selves they  will  find  the  way.  The  men  were  laugh- 
ing the  other  day,  to  hear  M.  Harle  say  to  that  woman 
from  Paris:  'My  men  are  happy'.  What  does  he 
know  about  it?  He  buys  them  n  the  factory  with 
his  wages.  He  buys  them  outside  with  his  aid  so- 
cieties, which  fasten  the  chains  on  for  life.  They 
accept  what  he  calls  his  benefactions  and  put  them 
down  to  remorse.  They  accept  and  they  wait.  .  .  ." 

"It's  not  a  very  lovely  future  that  you  are  out- 
lining to  me." 

"It's  not  a  very  lovely  present  that  I  see.  And 
I  don't  think  you  could  call  it  bad  to  put  justice  in 
the  place  of  force." 

"Certainly  not.    But  in  order  to  achieve  it,  even 


114  THE  STRONGEST 

supposing  that  our  spirit  and  our  will  are  enough, 
how  many  struggles,  how  many  evils!  We  are  old 
friends.  You  come  to  me  in  a  moment  of  affection. 
And  it's  something  like  a  declaration  of  war  that  I 
find  deep  in  your  hearts." 

"But  war,  M'sieur  Henri,  they're  making  war  on 
us.  We  are  compelled  to  accept.  Besides,  it  has 
nothing  to  do  with  you.  If  you  think  that  just  be- 
cause you  are  a  marquis  you  are  on  the  side  of  the 
strongest,  as  M.  Harle  says,  you  are  fooling  yourself. 
Perhaps  your  ancestors;  yes,  surely.  And  you  your- 
self, I  suppose — when  you  had  your  millions.  But 
you  didn't  know  how  to  make  them  grow,  nor  even 
how  to  keep  them.  Now,  you're  a  proprietor — just 
as  Pierre  is  a  blacksmith — on  a  small  scale.  I  mean 
in  comparison  with  M.  Harle.  And  then,  you  are 
from  the  village,  like  ourselves.  Everything  that 
interests  us  touches  you.  You  help  your  farmers 
without  talking  about  it.  And  you  don't  always  get 
your  rent,  in  spite  of  Nanette,  who  won't  listen  to 
reason.  It's  simply  because  you  are  a  good  man. 
You  love  the  small  people  since  you  are  yourself  one 
of  them,  and  they  love  you." 

"The  fact  is  that  I  wasn't  worth  much  before.  I 
didn't  know  you  or  anybody.  I  knew  nothing  of 
men.  I  was  too  far  from  them." 

"That's  exactly  what  Jean  said,"  remarked  Pierre. 
"You  were  one  of  the  strongest.  When  you  saw  that 
justice  wasn't  on  their  side,  you  left  them.  And  so 


THE  STRONGEST  115 

we  love  you.  What  are  you  going  to  do  in  Paris  now  ? 
You  don't  belong  to  that  country." 

"There  are  many  countries  in  that  country.  The 
one  in  which  I  am  going  to  pass  a  few  weeks — or 
perhaps  a  few  months — is  the  one  that  used  to  be 
mine.  I  agree  with  you,  Pierre,  my  boy,  that  I  shall 
not  cut  a  brilliant  figure." 

"Oh,  M'sieur  Henri,  that  isn't  at  all  what  I  meant. 
You  won't  need  anybody  to  show  you  the  way.  My 
idea  is  tihat  you  have  changed  while  all  your  friends 
remained  the  same.  So  you  won't  understand  each 
other,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  be  unhappy." 

"Perhaps  that's  true.  But  you  don't  think 
that  I  am  going  to  put^  myself  out  to  say  what  I 
think." 

"That  isn't  going  to  help  matters,  M'sieur  Henri," 
replied  the  smith,  who  having  but  few  objects  for  his 
thought,  divined  many  things.  "You  are  not  going 
to  Paris  only  for  amusement.  You  will  have  to  try 
to  get  on  with  your  people.  It  isn't  easy  when  you 
feel  differently.  Then  you  will  be  at  war,  and  there 
will  be  too  many  against  you." 

"And  aren't  you  at  war,  you?  Don't  forget,  I 
have  the  advantage  of  not  needing  anybody  else  in 
order  to  get  along." 

"We  found  our  lot  when  we  were  born.  We  never 
knew  anything  else.  Every  man  is  in  his  own  camp; 
that's  another  saying  of  M.  Harle.  People  are  far 
from  each  other,  as  you  said  just  now.  So  they  can 


116  THE  STRONGEST 

misunderstand  each  other,  and  hate  each  other,  and 
do  each  other  harm  without  remorse.  But  you, 
you're  different.  They  will  say  that  you  are  desert- 
ing your  class.  You  will  be  the  enemy.  There  will 
be  a  league  against  you — all  of  the  strongest — and 
you  won't  be  able  to  do  what  you  want  to  do." 

"I  don't  want  to  do  anything." 

"  So  long  as  we  are  alive  we  always  want  something. 
You  don't  have  to  earn  your  living,  but  you  want  to 
love  and  be  loved  like  everybody;  more,  since  you  are 
better.  In  Paris  those  who  ought  to  love  you  won't. 
They  won't  even  get  to  know  you.  And  those  who 
love  you  will  love  you  less,  because  everything  will 
turn  them  away  from  you.  Wouldn't  you  do  better 
to  stay  here  with  us?" 

"I  can't.    I  have  to  go." 

"Really,"  said  Nanette,  "wouldn't  you  think  that 
m'sieur  le  marquis  was  going  to  war?  Thank  God 
he  came  back  from  the  war.  Paris  won't  take  him 
away  from  us." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Pierre.  "It  was  friendship 
that  made  me  speak.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  was 
sorry  to  see  M'sieur  Henri  go." 

"All  we  wish,"  said  Jean,  "is  that  he  comes  back 
happy." 

"Who  knows,"  said  Nanette,  dreamily.  "Per- 
haps his  turn  is  coming." 

"For  that,"  Pierre  followed  out  his  idea,  "you 
mustn't  put  your  happiness  in  other  people." 


THE  STRONGEST  117 

Henri  closed  his  eyes,  to  see  again  his  eternal  image. 
"Happiness,"  he  said,  "is  only  in  giving  yourself." 

Their  pipes  had  gone  out  and  their  glasses  were 
empty.  Henri  filled  them  again  for  the  farewell, 
and  they  gravely  clinked.  For  simple  folk  there  is 
something  akin  to  the  accomplishment  of  an  august 
rite  in  this  touching  of  glasses.  Henri  looked  at  the 
two  brothers — silent,  embarrassed — more  moved  than 
they  wanted  to  say,  and  in  spite  of  unhappy  words, 
felt  comforted  by  their  friendship.  The  sincerest  ten- 
derness can  only  use  the  ordinary,  indifferent  words 
of  courtesy.  But  the  expression,  gesture,  silence 
itself,  tell  everything.  When  they  shook  hands  they 
found  nothing  to  say;  with  an  indistinct  " Au  revoir," 
they  separated. 

The  next  day  Nanette  said  only:  "Write  me  and 
I  shall  know  whether  I  ought  to  come."  She  pressed 
him  tenderly  to  her  heart,  pitying  him,  since  neither 
the  greatest  love  nor  the  most  beautiful  friendship 
had  brought  him  anything  but  misery. 

The  carriage  went  slowly  down  the  road.  Then, 
at  a  turn,  suddenly  disappeared.  She  could  still 
hear  the  rolling  of  the  wheels  and  the  rapid  trot  of 
the  horse.  The  winds  carried  the  distant  noise  to  the 
horizon.  And  Nanette,  remaining  alone,  was  free 
to  cry. 


CHAPTER  VII 

FOR  his  ordinary  trips   to  Paris,  Harle  gen- 
erally reserved  a  luxurious  apartment  in  the 
Hotel  Mirabeau.      He  had  long   ago  given 
up  the  idea  of  a  fixed  residence,  which  he  feared 
would  be  too  troublesome.     But  his  rising  position 
gave  him  social  duties  wherein  he  saw  a  chance  for 
future  glory.     Besides,  Claudia,  whose  inheritance 
was  already  beginning  to  attract  the  dowry-hunters, 
could  not  remain  in  the  hurly-burly  of  a  hotel. 

The  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps  had,  therefore,  little 
trouble  hi  convincing  the  visitor  that  the  hour  had 
come  for  him  to  establish  himself  in  Paris,  in  the 
centre  of  the  world.  Through  her  good  offices  a 
bargain  was  found:  the  princely  home  of  a  broker, 
suddenly  obliged  to  realize  all  his  wealth,  had  been 
left  in  the  hands  of  Baron  Oppert.  In  the  midst  of 
a  great  garden,  along  the  Avenue  Friedland,  stood  a 
heavy  and  pretentious  marble  structure.  Harle, 
who  had  been  coached,  was  dazzled  by  its  magni- 
ficence and  the  business  was  soon  arranged.  They 
decided  to  make  it  a  surprise  for  Claudia.  A  month 
later  the  noisy  extravagance  of  the  place  had  been 
toned  down  under  the  eye  of  the  comtesse.  Harle 

118 


THE  STRONGEST  119 

wanted  to  duplicate  his  winter  garden,  with  its  pre- 
cious waterfall,  and  fancied  that  a  collection  of  orchids, 
bought  at  random,  would  give  it  an  air  of  supreme 
refinement.  He  would  gladly  have  given  up  his 
Rubenses  and  his  Ruysdaels  for  what  he  could  find 
in  the  warehouses.  The  comtesse  dissuaded  him. 
She  even  succeeded  in  preventing  the  purchase  of  a 
lot  of  armour  on  which  Harle  had  set  his  heart. 
Thanks  to  the  firmness  of  the  woman  of  the  world 
the  decorations  of  the  house  were  kept  within  the 
limits  of  moderate  splendour. 

The  masterpiece  of  the  comtesse's  taste  was 
Claudia's  apartment.  It  was  full  of  light  and  colour. 
"A  smile  of  spring,"  she  said.  When  she  had  gone 
to  Ste.  Radegonde,  the  comtesse  had  announced  that 
everything  was  ready.  What  she  had  not  said  was 
that  she  had  taken  Claudia  into  the  secret,  spoiling 
the  climax  in  order  to  win  Claudia's  confidence. 
Even  in  the  full  flow  of  her  confidences  with  Henri, 
Claudia  faithfully  kept  her  promise  to  be  silent. 

When  Harle  came  to  Paris,  he  wished  to  go  at  once 
from  the  station  to  the  Avenue  Friedland.  The 
comtesse  disagreed,  insisting  that  Puymaufray  must 
take  part  in  the  surprise.  They  had  to  wait  for 
his  arrival,  so  that  he  could  see  the  little  suite  which 
was  at  his  disposal.  Finally  the  four  friends  rang 
the  bell  and  an  English  butler  opened  the  court  of 
honour  to  their  carriage. 

There  were  flowers  everywhere.    The  livery  was 


120  THE  STRONGEST 

too  new.  There  was  an  excess  of  wealth,  in  spite 
of  the  effort  at  restraint.  It  gave  the  sense  of  a  very 
recent  title,  which  had  to  display  itself  and  conquer 
at  once.  Claudia's  astonishment  was  well  planned — 
too  well  perhaps.  Henri  rejoiced  to  see  her  clap 
her  hands,  go  into  ecstasies  over  the  furniture  and 
trinkets  which  she  herself  had  chosen.  He  was 
grateful  to  the  comtesse. 

"You  know,"  said  Harle,  "but  for  Mme.  la  Com- 
tesse you  wouldn't  be  in  the  party.  I  hardly  had 
patience  to  wait  for  you." 

He  was  compelled  to  show  his  gratitude. 

"I  owe  you  a  great  pleasure,  madame,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  Claudia,  who  was  loudly  rejoicing  in  the 
Sheraton. 

The  comtesse  smiled  without  answering,  as  if  to 
say:  "It  isn't  my  fault  if  you  misunderstood  me." 
At  bottom  she  couldn't  help  being  proud  of  her  facile 
triumph.  The  marquis,  she  thought,  was  yielding. 
And  as  for  Claudia,  the  exuberance  of  her  art 
of  deceit  seemed  to  justify  the  confidence  of  her 
teacher. 

After  they  had  seen  and  admired  everything  tea 
was  served  under  the  exotic  foliage  of  the  hall. 
Puymaufray  thanked  them  for  offering  him  a  suite, 
but  announced  that  he  had  taken  lodgings  with  Des- 
chars  in  a  hotel  on  the  rue  de  Rivoli,  and  would  not 
leave  his  travelling  companion.  The  comtesse  ap- 
proved strongly  and  went  into  a  heartfelt  eulogy  of 


THE  STRONGEST  121 

the  young  man.  She  had  reflected  on  the  possible 
chance  of  his  flirting  with  Claudia.  Harle's  refusal 
was  certain,  but  she  did  not  care  to  begin  by  a  refusal 
and  take  the  risk  of  making  the  girl  obstinate.  She 
thought  it  better  to  give  the  young  man  every  chance 
— to  urge  him  on  with  kind  words  and  gain  his 
confidence.  She  would  arrange  it  with  Claudia,  dis- 
couraging her  gently  with  the  prospect  of  a  happiness 
so  completely  cut  off  from  the  world  that  it  would 
seem  no  happiness  at  all  to  her. 

Harle  was  rather  surprised  to  find  Deschars  in  such 
favour  and  asked  Henri  to  bring  him  to  the  family 
dinner  with  which  the  palace  was  to  be  opened  that 
evening.  Baron  Oppert  had  promised  to  come  with 
his  cousin,  the  Abbe  Nathaniel,  cure  of  St.  Exupere 
des-Anges.  The  priest  had  had  some  undefinable 
part  in  the  negotiations  between  Harle  and  the  baron. 
The  signatures  were  already  affixed;  they  were  on 
the  eve  of  action.  While  Puymaufray  and  Claudia 
were  busy  discussing  matters  of  dress  Harle  and  the 
countess  were  deep  in  mysterious  conferences. 

Henri  had  come  up  fresh  from  his  village  to  be 
shocked  by  the  exaggerations  of  the  prevailing 
styles;  and  it  hurt  him  to  see  that  Claudia  carried 
them  to  extremes.  It  hurt  him  more  because  the 
atmosphere  of  Paris,  with  its  temptations  to  coquetry, 
gave  a  provocative  air  to  the  marked  beauty  of  the 
girl.  He  would  have  liked  to  be  silent,  for  the  con- 
tinuous preaching  of  good  sense  is  hateful  to  the 


THE  STRONGEST 

young,  and  has  the  further  disadvantage  of  being 
always  right.  What  was  to  be  done? 

With  endless  precaution  in  choosing  his  words  he 
told  her  that  youth  and  beauty  were  enough  and  that 
art  only  spoiled  what  it  tried  to  adorn. 

"Uncle,"  she  answered,:" look  at  the  woodcuts  of 
your  own  age  and  you'll  see  that  women  dressed  just 
as  absurdly  as  they  do  to-day.  That  didn't  shock 
you.  It's  because  you  were  young  then,  Uncle.  Now 
I  am  young.  Do  me  the  justice  of  being  indulgent." 

"I  love  you,  my  dear,  and  that's  enough.  The 
pictures  you're  talking  about  are  mannequins,  not 
real  women,  who  wouldn't  dream  of  having  their 
pictures  in  portfolios.  The  others  wanted  to  attract 
attention.  Would  that  they  could  have  heard  what 
people  said!  There  is  a  limit  to  everything.  Dress 
is  merely  a  frame.  Go  down  to  the  Louvre  and  see 
if  the  masterpieces  are  loaded  down  with  useless 
ornaments . ' ' 

"Oh,  men  don't  know  anything  about  it,  I  swear." 

"Nevertheless,  women  always  dress  for  men." 

"Maybe,"  said  the  comtesse,  who  caught  Henri's 
last  word  and  came  to  Claudia's  aid.  "You  must 
know,  my  dear  marquis,  that  women  dress  for  women, 
and  that  a  man's  opinion  in  this  matter  is  worthless 
unless  he  happen  to  be  a  painter  or  a  dressmaker." 

"If  you  say  so,  madame,  it  must  be  true.  All 
the  same  I'd  like  to  ask  you  to  help  me  cure  Claudia 
of  her  excesses." 


THE  STRONGEST  123 

"Alas,  I  envy  them!"  sighed  the  comtesse.  It 
was  her  policy  to  let  Claudia  slip,  so  that  her  tender- 
ness would  be  appreciated  in  the  midst  of  scoldings. 
"It's  right  for  her  age.  Time  will  cure  her  better 
than  we  can." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Puymauf ray.  "  What  makes  me 
furious  is  that  the  youth  of  to-day  puts  all  its  exub- 
erance into  gloves  and  hats  and  feathers.  In  our 
time  we  carried  our  twenties  in  our  hearts." 

"And  all  thisfuss  because  my  sleeves  are  toopuffy." 

"Ah,  yes.  It's  all  one.  There  is  a  costume  to 
suggest  folly  just  as  there  is  one  which  can  suggest 
the  idea  of  living  in  the  simplicity  of  one's  self, 
which  is  beauty." 

"If  you're  going  to  judge  hearts  by  the  cut  of 
wool  or  silk,  do  you  know  what  you  ought  to  do? 
Come  with  us  to  the  dressmaker  to-morrow.  You 
will  check  Claudia's  fantasies  as  much  as  you  please 
and  Morgan  himself  may  profit  from  your  lessons." 

"Why  not?" 

"I'm  serious.  Do  come.  You  will  have  the  first 
glimpse  of  my  *  snowball'  gown,  which  I  am  sure 
will  defy  your  criticism!" 

"Oh,  yes,  Uncle;  come  along.  We'll  rig  up  a 
mannequin  in  your  style  and  I'm  sure  you'll  fall 
back  in  horror  before  your  own  work." 

"Excellent.    I'll  confront  Morgan  in  person." 

At  eight  that  evening  Baron  Oppert  and  the 
abbe  came  into  the  little  salon.  The  Comtesse  de 


124  THE  STRONGEST 

Fourchamps  was  already  there  and  a  few  moments 
later  Puymaufray  came  in,  followed  by  Deschars. 

"Well,"  said  Claudia  to  the  young  man,  "do  you 
like  Paris?" 

"I  like  Paris  to-night — very  much,"  answered 
Maurice,  "but  I'm  afraid  of  Paris  to-morrow." 

"And  I  thought  you  were  a  brave  man." 

"I  thought  so  myself.  You  never  know  your- 
self." 

"What  frightens  you?" 

"The  unknown.  The  noisy  crowd  with  nothing 
to  do,  which  refuses  to  be  disturbed.  You  yourself, 
who  seem,  somehow,  different  from  what  you  were 
at  Ste.  Radegonde." 

"You  are  right.  I  am  different.  The  joyful 
crowd  that  makes  you  angry  has  an  effect  on  my 
soul.  It  attracts  me.  This  morning  my  uncle 
told  me  to  be  twenty.  I  hope  you  won't  refuse  to 
take  part  in  my  pleasures." 

"You  are  Mile.  Claudia  Harl£,  and  you  will  never 
be  refused  pleasure." 

"Do  you  know  anything  better  than  that?  " 

"Yes.    Happiness." 

The  comtesse  quoted  the  saying  of  a  Chevalier 
de  Boufflers  that  "happiness  is  permanent  pleasure ! " 

"Yes     .    .     .    which  renews  itself." 

"And  where  do  you  find  that?" 

"In  those  you  love." 

"That's  very  chancy  according  to  what  I  hear. 


THE  STRONGEST  125 

You  have  to  be  born  for  that  and  find  your  fate. 
That's  what  you  mean  by  'those  you  love,'  isn't  it? 
That's  a  lot  of  trouble.  We  still  have  plenty  of 
time.  I  want  to  have  a  good  time  first." 

Meanwhile  Baron  Oppert  was  exchanging  the 
usual  formalities  with  Henri  de  Puymaufray.  The 
financier's  star  had  begun  to  rise  only  after  Henri 
had  plunged  into  the  abyss. 

Henri  saw  before  him  a  little  bald  man  whose 
rosy  face  was  framed  in  a  silky  white  beard.  A  large 
mouth  with  a  great  upper  lip  under  a  little  cynical 
nose  smiled  benevolently  at  some  secret  thought  while 
the  yellow  eyes,  shining  with  a  cold  light,  shot  pierc- 
ing rays  through  the  most  impenetrable  armour. 
His  voice  was  soft  and  warm,  with  that  oriental 
frankness  of  accent  which  the  westerner  will  always 
suspect  if  he  is  wise.  Under  the  appearance  of 
generosity  there  was  a  remnant  of  ancient  servility, 
the  treacherous  revenge  of  the  conquered.  There 
was  the  dream  of  treasure  which  haunts  the  Asiatic 
mind.  He  had  an  extraordinary  power  of  attract- 
ing men  and  things,  with  the  innate  knowledge  of 
how  to  get  the  most  out  of  them.  He  had  the  vanity 
of  a  slave  become  king,  with  the  most  complete 
contempt  for  humanity,  based  on  the  belief  against 
which  no  part  of  him  protested — that  the  soul  was 
as  marketable  as  the  body.  With  this  he  had  the 
good  features  of  disinterest.  Altogether  he  was  com- 
plicated and  strong. 


126  THE  STRONGEST 

Far  from  denying  his  Jewish  birth,  Oppert  prided 
himself  on  it,  superbly.  His  favourite  theme  was 
the  high  antiquity  of  his  race.  "With  Moses  and 
Jesus  we  conquered  the  world,"  he  would  say  again 
and  again.  He  seemed  to  have  become  a  Christian 
out  of  pride  in  Christ  the  Jew,  as  much  as  by  the  need 
for  security  which  made  Paul  a  Roman  citizen. 
He  did  not  hate  the  weak.  He  feared  only  that  they 
would  yield  to  the  temptation  to  get  together  and 
revolt,  whereby  they  must  ultimately  suffer.  To 
prevent  this  misfortune  he  readily  invoked  the  aid 
of  the  supreme  means:  force,  "always  most  effi- 
cacious when  it  is  abused,"  he  said.  "A  little  wrong 
for  a  great  good,"  he  would  say  when  people  protested 
against  savage  repressions.  He  was  a  born  enemy 
of  the  vanquished,  siding  by  nature  with  the  strong- 
est, and  his  only  thought  was  to  reap  the  utmost 
advantage  from  those  whom  he  served.  And  if  it 
happened  that  the  law  was  lacking  in  curiosity 
about  his  strokes  of  genius,  at  least  he  never  was 
lacking  in  gratitude  and  supported  the  law  with  all 
his  moral  authority. 

TTis  title  was  authentic,  from  the  Pope,  and  he 
always  said  "we"  when  speaking  of  the  nobility. 
His  brother  Simon,  also  a  convert,  had  bought  a 
Portuguese  title  for  their  father,  in  order  to  provide 
himself  with  an  ancestor.  The  old  nobleman  had, 
however,  been  left  in  tatters  and  died  on  his  pallet 
in  the  ghetto  of  Amsterdam  without  even  suspect- 


THE  STRONGEST  127 

fng  his  grandeur.  Samuel  Oppert  refused  to  rec- 
ognize this  Portuguese  title  and  remained  a  baron 
of  Christ  as  before.  In  spite  of  the  announcement 
notifying  the  world  that  the  Oppert  dynasty  counted 
two  generations  of  nobility  at  least,  the  Roman  baron 
never  forgave  his  Portuguese  brother  for  buying  his 
title  "dirt  cheap."  It  seemed  to  lower  the  value  of 
his  own.  He  could  long  ago  have  bought  himself  a 
dukedom,  but  as  Paris  did  not  yet  recognize  his 
baronetcy  he  left  that  innocent  vanity  to  the  younger 
sons  of  old  French  families. 

The  world,  to  be  sure,  was  not  too  particular. 
What  the  world  saw  was  that  the  baron  counted  his 
millions  by  hundreds  and  his  brother  only  by  ones. 
Since  it  is  wrong  to  despise  the  poor,  Count  Simon 
was  fairly  well  received  and  his  daughter  married 
an  Austrian  prince.  But  the  baron  exercised  sov- 
ereign power.  Governments  called  him  into  con- 
sultation; pretenders  counted  upon  him.  He  was 
the  hope  of  the  upper  classes,  the  fortress  of  those 
modern  aristocracies  which  base  their  glory  on  the 
double  advantage  of  high  or  low  commerce  and  the 
old  tradition  of  the  superiority  of  blood. 

Such  a  man  was  bound  to  inspire  immense  respect 
no  matter  what  his  beginnings  had  been.  In  addi- 
tion his  brother,  the  abbe  Nathaniel — a  tall,  stoop- 
ing Galician — made  clear  to  all  eyes  that  the  ap- 
proval of  the  Church  was  given.  He  was  the  go- 
between  for  financial  negotiations. 


128  THE  STRONGEST 

Puymaufray  quickly  noticed  the  harmony  be- 
tween the  manufacturer,  the  priest,  and  the  financier. 
He  thought  nothing  of  it,  for  he  was  busy  watching 
the  comtesse  whose  own  eye  was  on  Deschars. 

Dinner  was  served.  They  went  into  the  dining 
room,  where  the  walls  had  disappeared  under  plants 
and  greenery.  The  display — everything  brand  new, 
the  silver  and  crystal  glittering  amid  the  orchids 
and  roses — hurt  Maurice  as  if  it  had  been  a  flowering 
wall  raised  up  between  him  and  Claudia.  There 
were  exclamations  of  admiration  in  which  Harle 
revelled.  The  baron  asked  for  explanations.  He 
got  them.  Harle  took  the  house  apart  under  the 
eyes  of  the  guests,  detailed  all  its  perfections,  left 
out  nothing.  His  discourse  continued  until  the 
roast,  and  then  he  stopped  only  to  catch  his  breath. 
The  comtesse  skilfully  shot  in  a  remark  about  a  burn- 
ing question  of  the  day  and  the  conversation  became 
general. 

The  question  of  the  day  concerned  a  Mile.  Lu- 
cienne  Preban,  the  very  ugly  daughter  of  a  very  rich 
sugar  refiner.  Some  foppish  little  under-secretary 
of  state  on  the  lookout  for  a  good  thing  had  told  her 
that  he  loved  her. 

"Ah,  there  are  many  of  you  that  do,"  the  unhappy 
girl  answered.  "I  admit  that  I  like  you  very  much. 
But  what  can  I  do?  My  fortune  imposes  duties  on 
me  just  as  the  throne  imposes  duty  on  royalty.  We 
haven't  the-right  to  do  what  we  please  with  ourselves. 


THE  STRONGEST  129 

Pity  me!  What  can  I  do  with  all  these  princes  of 
mine?  You'll  see;  they'll  make  me  marry  one  some 
day  in  a  fit  of  boredom.  If  you  were  even  a  duke 
your  love  would  make  me  very  happy.  Perhaps 
Fate  will  arrange  some  revenge  for  us.  You  have  a 
great  destiny  before  you.  Let  us  be  patient,  my 
friend." 

•  The  discomfiture  of  the  young  politician,  much 
advertised  by  Lucienne  herself,  caused  great  amuse- 
ment. She  was  known  to  be  secretly  in  love  with  a 
moustached  Levantine. 

"That  girl's  not  a  fool,"  cried  Harle.  "I  detest 
those  puppies  who  try  to  get  in  with  us  because  they 
happen  to  be  playing  second  fiddle  in  the  Chamber. 
You  applaud  a  tenor.  But  the  composer  is  the  real 
'Master'  as  people  say.  All  these  politicians  do 
is  to  sing  the  words  we  put  down.  I  don't  like  people 
to  forget  that  we  are  the  composers." 

"You're  right,  my  friend,"  said  the  baron;  "we  do 
give  the  artist  his  material.  But  that  isn't  an  argu- 
ment against  our  interpreters.  Rossini  and  Wagner 
need  singers.  You  see,  we're  modest,  simple  men  of 
action.  We  are  satisfied  with  the  realities  of  power 
and  leave  the  official  pomp  and  circumstance  to 
others." 

"Perhaps  we're  wrong,"  answered  Harle,  haunted 
with  political  ambitions. 

"Perhaps.  We  use  the  movements  of  humanity 
for  our  own  ends.  But  we  might  as  well  confess 


130  THE  STRONGEST 

that  the  impulse  doesn't  come  from  us.  People 
have  to  believe  that  they  are  going  where  they  are 
not  going.  To  make  them  obey  us  we've  got  to 
excite  them  with  some  sentimentality,  and  we  order 
the  speakers  and  writers  and  artists  to  furnish  it. 
That's  what  people  stupidly  call  *the  ideas  which 
lead  the  people.'  Our  art  is  to  choose  between  these 
fantasies  and  use  those  which  suit  our  purpose.  It 
isn't  necessary  for  these  ideas  to  be " 

"True,"  said  Puymaufray,  softly. 

"Exactly,"  answered  the  baron,  without  moving 
an  eyelash.  "The  truth,  as  you  understand  it,  can 
be  food  for  only  a  few.  Prophets,  poets,  forerunners, 
as  we  say  nowadays — people  who'll  be  understood 
later.  The  crowd  lives  by  the  half  truths  which  you 
call  lies.  They  are  the  prejudice  of  the  crowd  in 
favour  of  a  safe  life,  and  we  ought  to  reward  all  those 
who  create  these  prejudices  and  put  them  into  cir- 
culation. They  serve  the  common  good  and  in- 
crease the  power  of  the  elite.  So  I'm  all  for  Dumou- 
zin  who  wanted  to  marry  Lucienne  Preban.  He  was 
a  member  of  my  hunting  party  and  his  only  mistake 
was  that  he  didn't  ask  my  advice." 

"Dumouzin,"  said  the  countess,  "is  one  of  my 
friends.  His  adventure  with  Lucienne  Preban  has 
done  him  no  harm.  It  puts  him  in  the  ranks  of  the 
great  marriage-makers." 

"And  so,"  asked  Puymaufray,  "this  gentleman  is 
publicly  known  to  be  negotiating  the  sale  of  his 


THE  STRONGEST  131 

charms.  And  when  the  Church  has  set  the  seal  of  its 
blessing  on  the  contract,  it  will  be  a  title  of  honour." 

"There  you  are,"  cried  the  baron.  "That's  one 
of  those  truths  which  I  was  talking  about.  All  right 
for  a  dozen  or  two  exquisite  souls.  I  admit  that,  in 
accordance  with  divine  morality,  Dumouzin  will 
not  go  without  rebuke,  and  some  of  his  contempo- 
raries with  him.  But  the  money  market  will  flourish 
just  as  usefully  among  us.  The  sale,  as  you  call  it, 
is  an  accepted  transaction,  and  I  say  it's  somewhere 
between  vice  and  virtue.  The  law  doesn't  attempt 
to  punish  all  moral  failings.  Doesn't  it  rather 
admit  that  certain  faults  are  to  be  tolerated  and  even 
honoured,  so  that  life  is  possible  without  the  continu- 
ous effort  to  be  perfect,  which  would  be  too  much. 
The  great  oligarchies  were  based  on  wealth,  originally. 
So  we  mustn't  look  too  closely  at  any  transfer  of 
money.  Because  that's  the  essential  thing  if  you're 
going  to  keep  up  the  power  of  money — in  the  in- 
terests of  the  poor,  whom  it  keeps  alive." 

Henri  was  silent;  he  thought  of  his  own  millions, 
ingloriously  strewn  over  the  streets  of  Paris.  Harle 
approved,  noisily.  When  the  dessert  was  served 
he  began  again  to  sing  the  praises  of  the  wonders  he 
himself  had  accomplished.  He  could  not  refrain 
from  calling  attention  to  the  monstrous  peaches. 

"I  know  them,"  said  the  baron.  "Beautiful,  but 
tasteless.  A  lesson  to  the  poets  who  write  only 
about  beauty." 


182  THE  STRONGEST 

Then,  turning  to  Deschars: 

"And  you,  traveller,  can't  you  tell  us  something 
of  what  the  pagans  think  about  marriage?  You 
could  show  M.  Puymaufray  how  far  we  have  pro- 
gressed under  Christianity  which  makes  marriage  a 
sacrament.  Didn't  you  ever  see  a  husband  purchase 
his  wife,  in  Asia?" 

"Yes,  baron,"  the  young  man  answered.  "It's 
only  in  Europe  that  I've  seen  the  wife  buy  the 
husband." 

They  cried  out  at  his  words,  which  were  generally 
considered  to  be  in  bad  taste.  Claudia  seemed  par- 
ticularly shocked,  and  her  irritation  increased  with 
Puymaufray's  evident  approval  of  Deschars. 

"You  could  dirty  everything  by  saying  that,"  she 
said  bitterly,  "if  you're  going  to  judge  only  by  ap- 
pearances. Apparently  a  poor  millionaire's  daugh- 
ter can't  marry  like  any  one  else.  You  say  that 
she's  being  married  for  her  money.  Well,  you  have 
to  marry  for  something,  for  beauty,  or  character, 
or  wealth,  or  whatever  you  please.  Perhaps  the 
best  insurance  for  a  long  life  together  is  that  condi- 
tions should  be  equal.  Lucienne  will  bring  her  mil- 
lions; he  will  bring  his  great  name,  or  his  ambitions, 
which  need  the  lever  of  wealth.  And  look,  you 
call  that  agreement  buying  and  selling.  The 
law  calls  that  a  contract,  and  that's  right.  Surely 
we're  all  free  to  dispose  of  ourselves  to  the  best 
advantage." 


THE  STRONGEST  133 

"That's  the  way  to  talk,"  shouted  Dominic, 
heartily  satisfied. 

"Yes,"  answered  Puymaufray,  "that's  the  phi- 
losophy of  the  age.  The  only  thing  we  forget  is 
love." 

"No  one  denies  love,  my  dear  marquis,"  said  the 
countess.  "But  who  knows  when  it  will  come?" 

"May  be  there's  a  shepherd  somewhere  up  on  the 
Alps  who  would  be  my  ideal,  and  I  his,"  insisted 
Claudia,  vexed  with  her  uncle's  reproaches.  "But 
before  I  can  get  to  him,  I'd  have  plenty  of  chances  to 
break  my  neck.  And  then,  suppose  there  wasn't 
any  shepherd." 

"Fie!  Young  and  afraid!"  said  Puymaufray  in  a 
shaking  voice,  as  if  to  himself. 

"You  see,  M.  Deschars,"  said  the  comtesse,  "that 
wit  isn't  enough.  You  have  to  be  logical,  too." 

"At  least  you  will  admit  that  we  put  the  wrong 
names  on  things,"  answered  Maurice.  "And  be- 
sides, I  should  say  that  all  these  discussions  about 
love  are  futile.  Because  even  the  hardest  of  us 
changes  his  ideas  when  he  is  touched  with  love. 
Those  who  worry  about  the  contract,  since  that's 
the  official  word  for  it,  simply  show  that  they  do  not 
love.  We  love  when  we  can;  and  when  we  do  love, 
rich  or  poor,  all  is  well." 

"All  is  well  for  how  long?"  demanded  Claudia. 

"For  a  time.  That's  a  great  deal  to  start  with. 
Our  life  isn't  so  long." 


134  THE  STRONGEST 

"That's  it,"  said  the  baron,  cheerfully.  "You 
youngsters  can  make  the  old  ones  ashamed.  M. 
Deschars  has  uttered  the  great  secret  that  puts  us 
all  in  harmony.  All  men  are  alike,  let  me  tell  you, 
because  I  know  them.  All  of  them  do  the  same 
thing  in  marriage  and  in  everything  else.  They  act 
in  accordance  with  their  temporary  interest.  Those 
who  do  otherwise  either  do  not  count,  or  they  repent. 
And  then,  after  they've  acted,  they  build  up  a 
theory  and  claim  that  logic  justifies  them.  How- 
ever, under  their  acts,  under  their  words — which 
are  only  external  and  I  might  almost  say  indifferent 
things — there  flourishes  obscurely  in  the  depths  of 
our  soul  something  essentially  pure  and  essentially 
beautiful — even  in  those  that  have  lost  the  best  part 
of  themselves  in  the  thickets  of  life;  it  is  the  need  for 
disinterested  feeling,  for  love,  as  you  say,  which 
seeks  ever  its  match.  And  if  these  two  blossoms 
meet  in  the  obscure  conflicts  of  life,  life  flowers 
magically.  It  is  a  chance.  If  they  do  not  meet, 
then  each  one  must  work  his  way  out,  adapting  him- 
self to  chance  encounters,  to  the  changing  but  nec- 
essary conventions  by  which  the  divine  law  is  ac- 
commodated to  human  frailty." 

"Bravo,  baron,"  cried  the  comtesse,  mockingly. 
"I  didn't  know  you  were  a  poet." 

"The  race  of  David  is  a  race  of  poets,  madame, 
which  doesn't  prevent  it  from  being  practical  at 
times." 


THE  STRONGEST  135 

"And  what  is  your  conclusion,  dear  baron?"  asked 
Harle. 

"Ah,  the  conclusion,  my  friend,  is  very  different 
from  M.  Deschars's  conclusion.  He  insists  on  con- 
fusing the  social  permanence  of  marriage  and  the 
passing  of  a  poetic  dream.  I  distinguish  sharply, 
without  demanding  the  complete  sacrifice  of  poetry. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  be  more  precise  and  the  abbe, 
who's  watching  me,  would  not  permit.  Be  calm. 
Apart  from  the  sacrament,  concerning  which  the 
Church  knows  best,  how  can  any  one  deny  that  mar- 
riage, in  our  society,  is  above  all  the  setting  for  a 
play  which  is  acted  in  our  own  hearts?  I  don't 
say  it  ought  to  be  that  way.  I  state  the  fact,  that 
it  is.  The  abbe  preaches  that  it  ought  to  be  different, 
and  I  agree — thoroughly.  Let  our  young  people 
make  us  a  new  world." 

The  dinner  came  to  an  end.  Puymaufray  was 
silent,  thinking  of  the  incredible  mixture  of  contradic- 
tory sentiments  in  the  soul  of  the  poet-financier, 
thinking  of  the  ravages  that  his  cynicism  could  work 
in  the  soul  of  a  young  girl.  Deschars — discontented 
with  himself  and  with  everything — laughed  harshly, 
his  nerves  sadly  torn.  Claudia  gave  each  one  a 
branch  of  apple  blossoms,  which  had  been  strewn 
over  the  table,  and  they  walked  into  the  conserva- 
tory processionally,  shaking  off  flakes  of  light. 

"You  might  think  it  was  a  pagan  festival,"  mur- 
mured the  abbe,  much  embarrassed  by  his  branch. 


136  THE  STRONGEST 

"Yes.  It  is  the  festival  of  the  Spring,"  remarked 
Claudia.  "But^  look,  M.  Deschars,  look  what  en- 
dures." She  showed  him  the  naked  branch,  let  it  fall  at 
her  feet  with  a  gesture  of  melancholy,  and  then,  as  if 
to  escape  a  bitter  memory,  hurried  to  join  the  others. 

"True,"  he  answered.  "But  the  branch  flowered 
once.  Life*  said  a  great  poet,  is  to  flower!" 

"Life  is  to  endure." 

"According  to  that,  a  muslin  rose  would  be  more 
alive  than  the  original." 

"It  deceives  you.    That's  enough.*' 

"No.  No.  There  is  no  lie  that  can  stand  against 
the  truth!" 

"Then  didn't  you  understand  what  the  baron  said 
just  now?" 

"Oh,  yes.  He  is  trying  to  mingle  truth  and  false- 
hood— so  much  of  one,  so  much  of  the  other — as  you 
need  them.  He  answered  himself  because  he  told 
us  that  we  always  find  a  logical  explanation  of  what 
we  have  already  done." 

The  comtesse,  passing,  on  Harle's  arm,  heard 
enough  to  realize  that  the  encounter  was  on,  and 
that  Deschars  had  not  had  the  advantage  to  begin 
with.  The  time  lost  by  Henri  she  had  turned  to 
her  gain.  She  was  solidly  established  in  Claudia's 
friendship,  seemed  to  the  girl  to  be  a  guarantee  of 
independence,  a  support  against  the  sometimes  im- 
perious demands  of  her  father  or  the  "wild  ideas" 
of  her  godfather. 


THE  STRONGEST  137 

"You  are  beautiful,  intelligent,  and  rich,"  the 
comtesse  would  tell  her.  "The  world  will  belong  to 
you.  You  must  be  free  to  decide  your  own  future. 
What  would  be  the  use  of  all  these  endowments  if 
you  couldn't  take  advantage  of  them  yourself? 
Will  you  choose  to  rule  over  the  world,  or  to  bury 
yourself  alive  in  a  dream?  That's  your  affair. 
Your  father  and  your  'uncle*  are  of  different  opin- 
ions about  it.  You  will  bring  them  together  simply 
by  following  your  own  desires.  They  both  of  them 
love  you  well  enough  to  be  on  your  side  at  the  end. 
La  any  case  you  can  count  on  my  friendship  to  help 
you  in  everything." 

These  words  bore  fruit,  and  all  the  more  because 
she  was  a  clever  counsellor.  She  never  imposed  her 
judgments.  She  limited  herself  to  provoking  ques- 
tions; and  her  answers,  although  she  professed  in- 
difference, were  decisive. 

While  they  were  taking  coffee  in  the  conserva- 
tory and  Harle  was  describing  his  waterfalls  and 
electric  lights,  Deschars  took  the  first  opportunity 
to  tell  Claudia  that  she  would  receive  a  case  of  Indian 
cloths  on  the  next  day.  Claudia  was  sorry  that  she 
had  vexed  her  uncle  and  took  the  occasion  to  make 
peace.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  Deschars  and  said: 

"So  you're  not  too  angry  at  me  for  the  silly  things 
I  said?" 

"They  weren't  silly.  They  were  what  everybody 
says."  ' 


138  THE  STRONGEST 

"That's  the  same  thing." 

"Not  necessarily.  It's  quite  possible  that  the  sen- 
timental ones  are  wrong." 

"You  don't  believe  that." 

"And  you?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  believe.  I'm  a  poor  muddle- 
head.  Sometimes  I  talk  against  my  own  thoughts, 
so  as  to  get  them  clearer  to  myself.  And  all  I  do  is 
to  make  Uncle  unhappy,  and  I  love  him  and  he  loves 
me  more  than  I  deserve." 

"Your  uncle  knows  you  well.  He  knows  that 
your  heart — 

"I  tell  you  that  I  myself  don't  know.  One  time 
or  another  everybody  seems  right — my  uncle  or  the 
others." 

"Perhaps  we  ought  to  take  both  sides?" 

"Oh,  then  you  aren't  prejudiced  against  the  world?" 

"How  can  you  be  prejudiced  against  the  society 
of  your  own  fellowmen?" 

"Well,  it  appears  to  me  that  my  uncle  is  condemn- 
ing the  whole  universe.  And  it  seems  that  the 
pleasures  of  life  drag  me  away  far  from  him,  while  my 
heart  remains  his." 

"What  do  you  call  the  pleasures  of  life?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  have  to  live  outside  myself. 
I  am  attracted  to  others  when  I  want  joy." 

"Oh,  well,  that  isn't  bad.  All  we  need  to  know  is: 
Who  are  the  others?" 

"Others? — that's  the  world  where  I  live,  where  I 


THE  STRONGEST  139 

have  lived,  and  where  I  will  live;  those  of  my  own 
class,  if  I  must  say  the  word." 

"That's  the  whole  question:  those  of  your  own 
class.  That  means  twenty,  or  thirty,  or  maybe 
fifty  people  whom  you  couldn't  even  name  at  one 
time  and  for  whose  opinion  you  are  going  to  live. 
At  bottom  you  don't  think  very  much  of  them.  No 
matter!  They  have  the  same  salons,  the  same 
dresses,  the  same  rules  of  living,  the  same  conven- 
tions of  speech,  the  same  surface  tastes,  and  these 
count  more  than  anything  else.  But  there  is  an- 
other humanity  besides." 

"St.  Vincent  de  Paul?" 

"You  don't  have  to  go  quite  so  far.  Simple  good- 
ness isn't  quite  so  extravagant  as  people  say  it  is. 
Besides,  contact  with  our  fellow  creatures  isn't  al- 
ways a  matter  of  money.  Your  hand  isn't  empty 
if  it  is  offering  friendship.  There's  an  exchange  of 
hearts,  too,  by  which  we  live  a  higher  life  than  our 
own.  I  have  seen  you  being  good  to  others. 
Haven't  you  felt  what  you  were  getting  by  giving? 
When  you  will  be  unhappy,  who  will  console  you  if 
you  have  never  given  consolation? — who  will  love 
you  if  you  haven't  loved?" 

"To  love  is  to  suffer,  Uncle  says." 

"Ah,  yes.  But  he  will  also  tell  you  that  it  is 
to  know  the  highest  happiness.  The  egoist  is 
afraid  to  suffer  and  so  loses  his  chance  to  be 
happy." 


140  THE  STRONGEST 

"So,  instead  of  arming  ourselves,  we  ought  to 
surrender  to  sorrow?" 

"Whoever  is  invulnerable  under  his  armour  will 
not  suffer,  but  he  will  not  live.  The  briefest  joy  of 
life  pays  for  the  longest-drawn-out  misery." 

"So  again  we  have  to  decide  for  ourselves  before 
we're  old  enough  to  know." 

Claudia  was  gay  and  charming  all  the  evening  and 
Henri  forgot  the  painful  impression  of  the  dinner. 
I  She  gently  drew  him  under  a  huge  palm  and  there 
kissed  him  with  a  full  heart. » 

"Uncle,  dear,  will  you  forgive  me  again?  I  said 
things  that  hurt  you.  But  isn't  it  better  for  me  to 
talk  wildly  and  foolishly  than  to  keep  down  the 
ideas  I  get  from  the  world? — they  make  me  worry 
about  my  future,  too.  When  I  speak  the  way  I  did 
I  want  you  to  contradict  me,  that's  why  I  speak. 
And  when  I  see  how  sad  your  eyes  get,  that  does  more 
to  bring  me  to  my  senses  than  anything  you  could 
say." 

"I  haven't  asked  you  to  be  anything  but  yourself, 
dear." 

"That's  what's  so  hard,  because  the  world  wants 
me  to  be  It" 

"Both  of  us  can  resist." 

"Yes.  But  that's  easier  for  you  than  for  me. 
You  aren't  tempted  because  you  know  everything 
and  everything  attracts  me  because  I  want  to  know. 


THE  STRONGEST  141 

That's  why  you  must  be  very  indulgent,  as  you  are. 
Did  you  notice  what  a  simple  little  gown  I  put  on 
just  to  please  you  to-night?  I  don't  want  to  lose  my 
reward  for  that.  To-morrow  you're  coming  to  Mor- 
gan's with  us  and  you'll  underwrite  every  dress  I  buy. 
Agreed?" 

"Agreed." 

"Ah,  an  idea.  To-morrow  I'm  going  to  get  a  box 
of  Indian  material  from  M.  Deschars.  Suppose  I 
send  them  down  to  the  shop  and  we'll  ask  him  to  be 
there.  What  do  you  say?  It'll  be  magnificent." 

"Excellent.     He'll  be  very  glad." 

"Fine.  Come  at  four  o'clock,  and  let  Maurice 
come  at  five.  Now  another  kiss,  the  comtesse  is 
going." 

The  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps  was  leaving,  know- 
ing that  the  baron  and  the  abbe  were  counting  on  a 
conference  with  Harle.  She  hadn't  missed  anything 
of  Claudia's  innocent  tricks.  She  looked  over  at 
Deschars  and  said  to  herself:  "Go  on,  go  on,  my 
child.  I'll  give  you  rope  and  rope  and  more  rope, 
until  with  my  help  you'll  hang  yourself." 

The  moment  the  three  men  were  left  alone  the 
abbe  burst  out: 

"I  have  news  from  Rome.    News  giving " 


CHAPTER 

THE  day  was  a  memorable  one  at  Morgan's. 
Precisely    at    ten,    when    Morgan — superior, 
calm — came  in,  it  was  discovered  that  Me- 
lanie,  his  premier  mannequin,  was  absent — and  for 
good.     She  had  come  up  from  the  country,  had 
schooled  herself  and   starved  herself,   insisting  on 
making  herself  an  honest  living.     She  had  succeeded. 
And  now  Morgan  held  in  his  hand  this  note: 

MY  DEAR  M.  MORGAN: 

I  have  decided  not  to  try  on  any  more  gowns  at  your 
place — except  those  I  order  for  myself.  I  cannot  forget 
the  services  which  we  have  rendered  each  other,  so  I  will 
come  this  afternoon  to  choose  some  models. 

As  ever  yours, 

MELANIE. 

P.  S.  Possibly  you  owe  me  some  money.   Please  distribute 
it  in  my  name,  among  the  girls  in  the  shop. 

All  morning  the  shop  hummed  and  buzzed,  and 
Morgan  had  to  appear  again  and  again  at  the  door 
to  demand  order.  It  was  nearly  three  o'clock,  the 
mannequins  were  trotting  out  in  front  of  a  delegation 

142 


THE  STRONGEST  143 

of  Chicagoans,  when  the  name  went  up — like  an 
electric  shock — "Melanie! — she's  come." 

With  a  confident,  modest  step  the  young  woman 
made  her  way  down  the  hall,  smiling  vaguely  at  the 
admiring  doorman  with  whom  she  had  been  friendly 
but  yesterday.  Everywhere,  at  every  curtain,  from 
carpet  to  ceiling,  eyes  followed  her.  They  were 
opened  wide  with  malicious  pleasure  (for  MelamVs 
long  adventure  in  the  paths  of  righteousness  had 
not  been  popular),  or  with  respect.  Melanie  did 
not  care :  she  greeted  them  as  usual.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  blue  tailor-made  suit  with  a  waistcoat  of  white 
pique,  prettily  setting  off  the  authority  of  her  figure. 
Her  hat  was  a  bit  "sporty"  but  a  white  veil  softened 
the  effect.  She  did  not  even  wear  a  bracelet.  The 
good  taste  of  the  debutante  was  loudly  approved. 

"You  can  see  she  graduated  here,"  said  her  com- 
rades, very  proudly. 

Mile.  Juliette,  the  f  orelady,  came  to  meet  her,  very 
stiff  and  dignified.  As  Troy  pressed  upon  the  ram- 
parts to  see  Hector  and  Achilles  race  around  the 
walls,  so  all  the  House  of  Morgan  stood — in  silent, 
closely  packed  ranks — deserting  the  astonished 
Americans,  to  attend  the  unheard-of  event.  Mile. 
Juliette,  with  her  discourse  upon  her  lips,  was  within 
three  paces  of  Melanie  when  the  latter,  smiling 
candidly,  stepped  aside  and  disclosed  the  Prince  de 
Luques,  who  was  with  her.  Before  Mile.  Juliette 
could  recover  from  her  surprise  the  prince,  who  was 


144  THE  STRONGEST 

not  one  to  be  stopped  midway,  saluted  her  as  Louis 
XIV  might  have  greeted  a  maid  on  the  back  stairs  at 
Versailles,  and  stepped  nobly  with  his  companion  into 
the  famous  white  Psyche  room. 

"Tell  Morgan  we're  waiting  for  him,  won't  you?" 
he  said,  casually. 

And  Morgan  came.  The  Prince  de  Luques  was 
too  valuable.  He  was  one  of  the  most  thoroughly 
ruined  men  in  France,  yet  his  expenses  were  magni- 
ficent. He  had,  at  the  age  of  sixty,  an  all-powerful 
reputation  in  the  foreign  colonies  of  Paris  as  the  great 
"introducer"  to  the  salons  of  the  French  aristocracy. 
And  since  he  was  pilot  and  adviser  to  millions  he 
could  not  prevent  dressmakers  and  other  shopkeepers 
from  being  grateful  to  him.  Morgan  considered  all 
this.  He  considered  the  certainty  that  Melanie's 
orders  would  never  be  paid  for.  But  he  came.  And 
when  the  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps  came  with 
Claudia  they  had  to  wait  for  the  master  artist  to 
appear. 

"Ah,  madame,"  cried  Juliette,  as  soon  as  they  had 
come  in,  "you  could  never  guess  what's  happened. 
I'm  really  in  a  dreadful  state."  Then,  without  giving 
her  noble  client  time  to  ask  a  question,  she  told  her 
in  one  gasp  all  thathad  happened. 

"Admirable!"  cried  the  comtesse,  radiantly. 
"Can't  we  get  a  look?" 

"Yes;  presently,  when  they  go  out." 

Morgan  appeared. 


THE  STRONGEST  145 

"My  compliments,  Monsieur  Morgan,"  announced 
the  comtesse,  "the  end  of  Melanie  for  you  is  as  hon- 
ourable as  her  beginning.'* 

"It's  quite  Parisian/'  said  Morgan,  thinking  of  the 
contrast  with  the  debut  of  the  comtesse  for  whom  he 
had  opened  an  unlimited  credit  account  at  once. 

"  Tell  us  that  there's  nothing  behind  it.  Everyone 
will  think  you  arranged  it  on  purpose." 

"No.  It  happened,  of  itself;  and  that's  what's 
so  beautiful!" 

The  fitting  began.  Claudia  was  a  martyr,  heroic- 
ally adopting  the  stiff  attitudes  ordered  by  Morgan, 
letting  herself  be  pushed  and  twisted  and  turned. 
And  always  the  question:  "Is  that  all  right?"  brought 
back  the  answer:  "Not  yet."  She  flung  her  head 
at  the  reply;  and  the  mirror,  instead  of  reflecting 
the  awaited  perfect  line,  gave  her  back  the  image 
of  her  pouting  face  and  her  nervous  little  yawns. 
She  grew  weary  of  standing  and  urged  the  fitter  to 
hurry.  "If  I  hurry  it  won't  be  any  good,"  replied 
the  woman,  calmly.  And  when  it  happened  that 
the  comtesse  and  the  fitter  differed,  Morgan  was  sent 
for  again,  and  Claudia  had  to  stand  still  long  mo- 
ments until  her  critics  were  agreed. 

While  she  did  her  duties  conscientiously  the  com- 
tesse watched  the  door.  And  when  she  heard  the  light 
tapping  of  little  feet  followed  by  the  dragging  foot- 
steps of  the  prince  she  raised  the  curtain  and  stood 
in  the  embrasure  with  noble  effrontery.  Melanie 


146  THE  STRONGEST 

passed,  putting  the  virtuously  stiff  comtesse  com- 
pletely out  of  countenance  with  her  most  innocent 
smile.  The  prince,  haughtily  distrait,  saw  nothing, 
his  gaze  lost  in  space.  Claudia  had  leaned  her 
head  on  the  comtesse's  shoulder  and  received  part  of 
Melanie's  smile,  to  which  she  answered  with  a 
mutinous  shake  of  the  head. 

"WeH  I  don't  see  what's  so  wonderful  hi  that!" 
she  cried  out.  "She's  swagger,  that's  all.  That's 
very  good,  too.  Uncle  says  that  frankness  is  the 
highest  virtue.  He  would  be  pleased  with  her  dress, 
which  is  much  more  discreet  than  mine." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  comtesse,  "M61anie 
shows  excellent  tact  in  trying  to  atone  for  the  extrav- 
agance of  her  conduct  by  the  simplicity  of  her  dress. 
You  have  nothing  to  conceal,  so  you  can  properly 
pique  curiosity  with  your  frocks." 

"That's  what  Uncle  disapproves  of;  he  calls  them 
provocative  clothes.  He  says  that  in  other  years 
young  girls  dressed  simply  and  only  women  like 
Melanie  attracted  attention  with  their  clothes." 

"Perhaps.  In  any  case  that's  no  longer  the  fash- 
ion. Let  the  old  dress  old-fashioned.  You,  dear, 
you  be  young." 

"Well,  and  here  Uncle's  coming  to  dress  me 
like " 

"Oh,  come,  Claudia,  you're  not  going  to  let  him 
dress  you  like  a  nun?" 

"I  don't  want  to  hurt  him." 


THE  STRONGEST  147 

"Quite  right.  But  you  must  understand  that  all 
these  things  are  just  talk  with  him.  Only  another 
way  of  regretting  his  youth.  He  would  be  desolate 
if  you  obeyed  him  and  would  demand  a  bit  of  gaiety 
at  once.  When  he  comes  in,  presently,  we'll  tell  him 
he's  too  late — that  your  frocks  have  been  sent  down 
to  the  sewing  room.  And  then  we'll  distract  his 
attention  with  all  those  things  that  M.  Deschars  is 
sending  over." 

"Yes.    But  when  he  sees " 

"That's  easy  enough.  You'll  say:  'Look,  Uncle, 
see  how  I  yielded  to  your  wishes.  I  have  stripped 
off  everything  that  could  shock  your  Empire  taste. 
He'll  laugh — and  believe  that  you  really  have  sacri- 
ficed a  lot  for  him,  so  he'll  pass  the  rest." 

"Is  that  what  you  meant  when  you  told  Juliette 
to  scale  up  the  colour  scheme?  " 

"Exactly!  A  little  souvenir  of  the  impeccable 
Mme.  Recamier  won't  displease  the  marquis.  Re- 
member, she  was  interested  in  chimney-s weeps." 

"Oh.    So  we  dress  for  chimney-sweeps." 

"For  them  and  much  more,  for  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Our  first  law,  my  dear  child,  is  to  please. 
And  when  you're  twenty  years  old  you  want  the 
admiration  of  many.  Why  do  you  imagine  you  were 
breaking  your  back  in  front  of  that  mirror  for  two 
hours?  Was  it  for  the  futile  pleasure  of  being 
criticized  by  us,  or  was  it  in  the  hope  of  attaining  a 
perfection  in  your  clothes  which  would  make  you 


148  THE  STRONGEST 

look  just  as  you  want  to  look?  Don't  you  want  to 
be  beautiful  any  more?" 

"Oh,  yes.    As  beautiful  as  possible." 

"Well.  Beauty  is  a  conventional  idea  which 
changes  with  tune  and  place.  Your  friend  Deschars 
will  tell  you  that  an  Indian  girl  isn't  considered 
beautiful  unless  she  has  a  silver  ring  in  her  nose. 
Why  shouldn't  our  artistic  costumes  be  as  respectable 
as  that?  Let  us  amuse  the  eyes  of  our  contempo- 
raries so  long  as  we  can  charm  their  hearts." 

Juliette  came  back  from  another  room  with 
Puymaufray. 

"My  dear  marquis,"  cried  the  comtesse,  "you're 
late.  Or  perhaps  we  came  too  early.  It  works  out 
the  same.  Claudia  couldn't  stand  all  day  with  her 
arms  in  the  air.  I  promised  to  save  her  from  your 
displeasure.  You  must  forgive  me,  not  her.  Be- 
sides, we  came  down  a  lot  from  our  extravagances 
just  to  please  you." 

Claudia  played  her  part  perfectly. 

"Madame,"  said  the  marquis,  "it's  the  best  thing 
that  could  have  happened.  Undoubtedly  my  criti- 
cism would  have  been  stupid,  because  I  am  ignorant 
of  these  things." 

"The  only  criticism  I  accept  is  from  experience.  A 
dress  must  dress  you.  What  are  all  our  frocks  but  a 
concession  to  the  infirmities  of  the  masculine  heart 
which  refuses  to  be  content  with  a  beautiful  soul?" 

"Ah,  then  why  construct  such  elaborate  dresses 


,  THE  STRONGEST  149 

which  no  man  can  analyze?  I  am  one  of  your  ad- 
mirers, and  yet  I  couldn't  say  how  you  were  dressed 
yesterday." 

"That's  just  why  your  criticism  is  worthless.  I 
told  you,  we  dress  up  for  women.  However,  in  spite 
of  the  weakness  of  your  eyes,  you  know  whether  the 
whole  effect  pleases  you  or  not.  What  does  it  matter 
whether  you  know  why  and  wherefore,  so  long  as  we 
know?" 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  I'd  say  something  stupid?" 

"The  object  of  art  escapes  you.  All  men  are  that 
way." 

"You  will  admit  that  a  life  passed  in  front  of  a 
mirror  exaggerates  your  personality  and  deforms  it 
by  giving  a  false  point  of  view.  I  wanted  to  save 
Claudia  from  that  disease." 

"Are  you  sure  that  men  don't  array  themselves 
as  carefully  as  we  do?  It's  only  a  difference  of 
means;  that's  all." 

Meantime  the  mannequins  were  coming  in  and 
posing  in  various  attitudes  in  front  of  the  marquis 
with  an  amusing  air  of  saying :  "  Look  at  me."  With 
a  brief  word  the  comtesse  gave  her  opinion  or  decided 
what  would  not  do.  Claudia  listened  attentively, 
try  nag  to  fix  things  in  her  memory.  When  the  seance 
was  over  they  were  ready  to  admire  the  snowball 
gown,  and  Deschars  who  had  come  was  allowed  to  be 
present.  When  the  mannequin  came  in  there  was 
a  cry  of  wonder.  Clusters  of  silk  crystals  on  a  field 


150  THE  STRONGEST 

of  hoar-frost  sown  with  icicles,  and  then  feathery 
puffs  of  white  flakes  from  which  emerged  the  triumph 
of  the  flesh. 

"  A  flower  seen  in  a  tempest,'*  said  Morgan. 

The  comtesse  called  the  tall  young  girl  with  the 
chestnut  hair,  and  began  moving  her  around  as  if 
she  had  been  an  artificial  model.  With  an  obvious 
contempt  for  the  youthful  beauty  of  the  girl  she 
explained  the  changes  which  she  had  worked  out. 

"It  seems  a  little  confused  to  me.  The  theme 
implies  more  unity.  So  I've  taken  out  this  whole 
flounce.  (.Around,  please,  miss.)  My  idea  is  a  frozen 
cascade  from  the  shoulders  down  to  the  snowfall  at 
the  feet.  This  hardly  gives  you  the  idea.*' 

Puymaufray  had  to  admit  that  the  Snowball 
would  be  a  perfect  masterpiece  and  Claudia  noted 
the  word  as  a  confession  of  defeat.  Decidedly  he 
had  not  got  the  better  of  the  comtesse. 

Deschars  announced  that  the  trunk  had  been 
opened  in  the  Psyche  room  and  Claudia  led  them 
all  in  to  see. 

In  truth  it  was  a  feast  for  the  eyes.  Brocades  so 
precious  that  the  thought  of  their  cost  in  human  lif  e 
was  stupefying;  gauzes  like  sheets  of  light,  colours  of 
flame  in  burning  streaks;  flashes  of  swords,  spangles 
of  gold  and  silver  dream  flowers  on  purple  back- 
grounds, the  seeds  of  spring  on  an  azure  field;  magic. 
Claudia,  dazed,  looked  at  them  with  open-mouthed 
astonishment. 


THE  STRONGEST  151 

"Why,  it's  madness !"  she  said.  "How  could  you 
collect  this  treasure?" 

"By  thinking  much  of  you,"  answered  Maurice. 
"Only  the  meeting  and  clashing  of  colours  is  worth 
anything.  You  ought  to  see  these  things  there  in 
the  sun." 

"Even  in  our  fog  there  couldn't  be  anything  more 
wonderful.  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  Papa  will 
let  me  accept  them  only  because  you  are  a  childhood 
friend." 

"These  things  have  no  value  except  the  patience 
put  in  the  work  of  collecting  so  many  bits  from  every- 
where." 

"I'm  grateful  to  you  just  the  same.  Uncle,  you 
aren't  saying  a  word." 

"I'm  overcome;  and  displeased  with  Maurice  for 
spoiling  you."  The  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps  was 
so  fascinated  by  the  dance  of  colours  that  her  artistic 
approval  overcame  her  strategy. 

"Mr.  Traveller,"  she  said,  "you're  to  be  compli- 
mented without  reserve.  It's  wonderful." 

Then,  to  complete  her  eulogy, 

"Geneva  and  Lyons  are  superior  to  everything. 
But  exoticism  has  the  savour  of  the  first  moment, 
it  surprises  the  imagination.  I'm  absolutely  daz- 
zled." 

Each  piece  was  passed  in  review  and  admired. 
Claudia's  shining  eyes,  her  wonder,  her  cries  of  joy 
were  the  best  reward  for  the  young  man.  They 


152  THE  STRONGEST 

spent  a  charming  hour  draping  the  stuffs  on  a  manne- 
quin who  had  been  summoned. 

When  Morgan  was  asked  to  give  his  opinion  he 
delivered  a  lecture.  He  explained  that  the  aesthetics 
of  theJNorth  alone  asked  a  woman  to  show,  at  certain 
times,  her  arms,  her  neck,  and  her  shoulders,  while 
the  dreamy  Orient,  with  the  imagination  of  a  volup- 
tuary, saw  in  a  cloud  of  starry  veils  forms  which  could 
be  clothed  in  supreme  perfection.  They  were  two 
conceptions  of  the  art  of  concealing  in  order  to  reveal. 

"Yes,  but  how  can  we  make  use  of  all  this  wealth?  " 
demanded  the  comtesse.  "You  can't  get  yourself 
up  like  a  dancing  girl  for  a  walk  on  the  Bois." 

"There's  interior  decoration,"  replied  Morgan. 
"Or  a  costume  ball  or  tableaux  vivants." 

"  Tableaux  vivants  1"  shouted  Claudia,  "that's  the 
idea!  You  always  have  some  poor  people  to  help. 
You'll  organize  something,  won't  you?  It'll  be  abso- 
lutely unparalleled.  We'll  dazzle  the  whole  world 
and  we'll  do  good  at  the  same  time.  This  time 
you'll  be  pleased,  won't  you,  Uncle?" 

Henri  assented  silently. 

A  salesgirl  came  in  to  tell  the  comtesse  that  Mme. 
du  Peyrouard  was  in  the  next  room  and  wanted  to 
come  in  to  pass  the  time  of  day. 

"What,  Louise  here?  Ask  Mme.  du  Peyrouard 
to  come  in.  M.  Deschars,  you  don't  mind  showing 
your  Indian  things  to  my  friend?" 

Maurice  nodded. 


THE  STRONGEST  153 

Mme.  du  Peyrouard  was  the  sister  of  Etienne 
Montperrier  the  young  deputy,  a  potential, Cabinet 
member,  whose  eloquence  had  so  often  struck  down 
the  opposition — which  always  rose  from  its  ashes. 

They  were  the  children  of  a  lawyer  from  Limoges 
who  was  known  as  a  republican  in  the  days  of  the 
Empire.  Proscribed,  banished  to  Switzerland  and 
called  back,  the  man  of  law  had  become  a  figure  in 
the  opposition  and  would  cheerfully  have  died  for 
the  Republic  if  the  people  had  wished  it.  Instead, 
the  people  made  him  a  senator,  when  the  Republic 
was  established  and  later,  when  a  coalition  defeated 
him,  the  Government  made  him  a  member  of  the 
High  Court.  His  daughter,  Louise,  was  educated 
at  the  convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart  and,  provided 
with  a  small  dowry,  had  married  M.  du  Peyrouard, 
an  incompletely  ruined  gentleman  who  vegetated  in 
the  lowest  ranks  of  small  administrative  offices. 
The  protection  of  the  senator  quickly  made  him' an 
inspector  general  and  he  passed  his  life  conscien- 
tiously watching  the  wasting  of  his  budget  in  accor- 
dance with  the  best  rules  of  administration,  firmly 
convinced  that  he  was  rendering  unheard-of  services 
to  the  army  and  to  agriculture. 

His  wife,  hardly  pretty  but  fresh  and  lively,  was 
made  for  intrigue  above  all.  She  was  very  deep  in 
the  official  world,  which  is,  under  any  regime,  the 
forefront  of  eternal  greed,  and  was  feared  and  loved 
there.  She  dropped  her  lines  everywhere,  was  mixed 


154  THE  STRONGEST 

up  in  everything,  opened  the  way  to  some  and  barred 
it  to  others,  and  would  have  it  that  her  hand  was 
felt  by  all.  She  knew  the  private  history  of  every- 
one. She  knew  their  needs,  their  appetites,  their 
weaknesses;  to  some  she  was  sympathetic,  even  a 
tempter  if  the  need  arose;  but  she  was  implacable 
when  she  found  herself  hampered  in  working  out 
her  plans.  She  was  thirty-six,  pious,  body  and  soul 
in  the  charitable  work  of  the  Church,  protecting 
religion  against  the  heterodox,  and  storming — in  the 
name  of  all  those  who  had  something  to  defend — 
against  everything  new.  She  did  not  love  the  Re- 
public, but  yielded  to  it  under  the  persuasions  of 
the  old  Senator. 

The  convent  had  been  an  all-powerful  aid  to  Mme. 
da  Peyrouard  in  her  political  career.  She  found, 
like  the  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps,  that  friendships 
made  there  were  powerful  levers,  and  neither  of  them 
wasted  her  opportunities.  The  two  women  were 
born  to  be  friends.  The  moment  they  met  there 
was  engendered  a  passionate  and  permanent  en- 
thusiasm which  never  faltered  or  was  betrayed. 
Mme.  du  Peyrouard  carried  her  refinement  to  such  an 
extent  that  she  allowed  an  adventure  or  two  to  be 
imputed  to  her  in  order  not  to  contrast  too  severely 
with  her  friend,  and  the  comtesse,  who  was  not  de- 
ceived, was  grateful  to  her  for  the  consideration. 

The  ace  in  Mme.  du  Peyrouard's  hand  was  her 
brother,  Etienne,  a  young  deputy  with  a  great  future. 


THE  STRONGEST  155 

Although  he  was  the  older  by  two  years,  she  had 
helped  him  greatly  with  advice  in  the  critical  hour 
of  his  parliamentary  beginnings.  She  remained  his 
surest  friend,  his  happiest  inspiration,  and  the  most 
resourceful  of  his  aids. 

Etienne  was  marvellously  endowed  with  the 
faculties  of  memory  and  imitation  and  had  rapidly 
acquired  the  habit  of  mind  of  "successful  men." 
Under  the  lofty  guidance  of  his  father  he  had  crowned 
this  work  with  the  trick  of  fluent  speech.  His 
aptitude  for  falling  into  the  prescribed  attitudes,  his 
art  of  yielding  to  all  who  could  serve  him,  his  happy 
desire  to  please,  and  his  studied  application  in  order 
to  merit  the  applause  of  serviceable  mediocrities, 
made  him  the  admired  of  all,  even  in  his  youth. 
He  excelled  in  all  small  things  and  led  a  cotillon 
incomparably. 

"Make  sure  of  the  women,5'  Louise  advised  him 
again  and  again. 

He  did  as  he  was  told  and,  with  patience,  con- 
quered widely.  People  said,  "He  will  go  far." 
Nothing  is  so  potent  as  are  these  words  to  insure  a 
man  universal  favour. 

His  father  wanted  him  to  begin  modestly.^*  One 
day,  when  the  ministry  needed  his  vote,  he  bargained 
for  a  sous-prefecture  and  the  beginner  left  for  Gas- 
cony,  where,  under  the  prudent  eye  of  his  mother,  he 
could  think  about  Tocqueville  and  Duvergier  de 
Hauranne  while  "looking  after"  his  work.  He 


156  THE  STRONGEST 

"looked  after"  it  so  well  that,  at  the  end  of  four 
years,  the  deputy  from  that  district  found  himself 
scandalously  unpopular  and  there  was  no  other  pos- 
sible candidate  except  Etienne  Montperrier  himself. 

To  say  that  Etienne  Montperrier  was  a  deputy  is 
nothing.  He  was  a  deputy;  the  accredited  dispenser 
of  governmental  favours,  of  multicoloured  ribbons 
and  lace;  and,  therefore,  master  of  everything  and 
of  everybody — a  feudal  lord,  and  slave  to  his  own 
tyranny.  In  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  he  recited 
prettily  some  pieces  that  his  father  had  composed 
for  him  and  ended  with  some  of  his  own  eloquence. 
So-called  independent  journalists,  looking  into  the 
future  and  pleased  at  the  chance  to  travel  in  good 
company,  wrote  laudatory  articles  about  him.  They 
laughed  at  them  in  private  but  the  world  accepted 
the  praise  in  good  faith. 

And  so  "the  orator  of  youth"  found  himself  chosen 
by  all  right-thinking  people  ever  suspicious  of  ex- 
travagance of  thought  or  of  knowledge.  The  Com- 
tesse  de  Fourchamps  called  him  "the  Bouguereau  of 
the  Tribune,"  in  superlative  praise.  He  had  a  fine 
presence;  his  elegance  of  dress,  his  deep  blue  eye, 
and  pointed  black  beard,  were  said  to  cause  havoc. 
He  was  almost  mediocre  in  everything,  but  he  bundled 
his  inferior  fagots  and  achieved  a  kind  of  superiority; 
he  was  good  until  his  self-interest  was  involved, 
sincere  until  he  had  to  act,  and  daring  to  the  limit 
of  audacity.  He  had  the  most  enviable  start  of 


THE  STRONGEST  157 

any  man;  but  it  was  the  start  of  a  useless  thing, 
fruitless,  but  worthy  of  attention  as  a  precious  ex- 
ample of  a  collection  of  everything  that  was  not  true. 

Such  as  he  was,  in  the  first  rank  of  men  looking 
for  profitable  opinions,  Montperrier  found  the  right 
road  at  his  first  trial  and,  without  straying  once  from 
the  narrow  path,  enrolled  himself  instinctively  on 
the  side  of  the  strongest.  However,  he  worked  his 
success,  and  made  conditions  when  a  place  in  the 
Cabinet  was  mentioned.  He  knew  that  the  import- 
ant thing  was  to  be  "in  with  the  Government." 
The  rest  would  come.  He  decided  that  he  must 
make  a  great  marriage  before  he  came  into  the 
open. 

"To-day,"  he  would  say  ingenuously.  "I  am  the 
future.  There  is  always  a  little  loss  in  the  present." 

His  sister  discussed  the  matter  with  the  comtesse 
who  had  undertaken  to  sell  Montperrier  for  all  he 
could  fetch  in  the  marriage  market.  Many  proj- 
ects were  discussed  and  rejected  one  after  the  other, 
and  Etienne  never  had  the  bad  taste  to  disagree  with 
his  protectors. 

A  lively  effort  was  made  for  Lucienne  Preban. 
But  the  countess  was  very  soon  convinced  that  the 
girl  had  really  given  her  heart  to  her  moustached 
Smyrnean.  It  was  a  shame  to  be  stopped  short  by 
such  a  stupid  obstacle.  However,  the  comtesse  de- 
cided that  it  would  be  even  more  stupid  to  insist, 
so,  after  a  consultation  with  Baron  Oppert,  came  to 


158  THE  STRONGEST 

the  conclusion  that  Claudia  and  Montperrier  would 
suit  each  other  in  every  particular. 

When  the  comtesse  returned  from  Ste.  Radegonde 
she  had  come  to  an  understanding  with  Mme.  du  Pey- 
rouard  that  the  two  young  people  should  be  given 
frequent  occasions  to  meet  each  other.  The  en- 
counter at  Morgan's  was  not  surprising.  Etienne 
had  come  with  his  sister,  and  the  comtesse  was  very 
happy  to  present  the  brilliant  and  grateful  deputy 
to  the  Marquis  de  Puymaufray, 

After  the  usual  compliments  had  been  exchanged 
they  returned  to  the  marvels  of  India  and  Mme. 
du  Peyrouard,  assiduously  attentive  to  Claudia, 
wanted  to  see  everything  and  to  handle  everything. 
Montperrier  devoted  himself  to  winning  the  favour 
of  Puymaufray. 

"I  know,  monsieur  le  marquis,  that  after  fighting 
nobly  for  your  faith  and  for  your  country,  you  have 
retired  from  the  world  to  your  estate  in  the  midst  of 
the  farmers  to  whom  you  are  devoting  your  life. 
That  is  an  example  of  duty  thoroughly  done." 

"I'm  afraid  you're  far  from  the  mark,"  answered 
Puymaufray,  who  couldn't  help  smiling.  "Have  we 
got  to  the  point  where  a  man  can  boast  of  simply 
defending  his  country,  as  if  there  were  something 
extraordinary  in  that?'* 

"Well  spoken!  Very  few  of  us  understand  things 
that  way.  You  belong  to  the  time  when  people  did 
things." 


THE  STRONGEST  159 

"Well,  you  can  do  things." 

"Alas!  All  our  good  intentions  seem  paralyzed. 
We  need  some  powerful  spirit,  some  powerful  will,  to 
gather  them  and  to  make  them  act.  Shall  we  find 
such  a  man?" 

"Doit.    We'll  see!" 

"My  generation  hasn't  had  its  day  yet.  I  hope 
it  will  come.  But  when?  And  how?  What  will 
be  demanded  of  us?  Under  all  governments  certain 
conditions  of  order  and  progress  remain.  You  de- 
fended them  with  the  sword.  We  have  only  the 
pen  and  the  spoken  word  to  defend  them  from  the 
greed  down  below " 

"From  the  greed  up  above." 

"That's  an  aristocrat's  joke.  Don't  you  think 
it's  right  for  the  few  to  be  given  social  advantages, 
as  pay  for  the  sacrifices  that  they  make  for  the  com- 
mon good?  That  payment  gives  profit  to  every- 
body because  it  eventually  comes  back  to  the  masses." 

"And  it  isn't  our  fault,  I  suppose,  that  we  are 
among  the  few?  We  have  to  be  capable  of  devo- 
tion to  speak  as  you  do." 

"I  want  to  serve  my  country;  that  is  my  only 
ambition.  France  is  easier  to  govern  than  people 
imagine.  Our  whole  mistake  is  not  to  trust  more  to 
the  good  sense  of  the  'ignorant  mass.'  I  dare  to 
speak  to  them  and  they  applaud  me.  People  say 
you  need  courage  to  do  that.  That's  exaggeration. 
Ah1  you  need  is  confidence  in  the  power  of  reason, 


160  THE  STRONGEST 

which  is  enough  to  put  public  spirit  on  its  guard 
against  radicals.  We're  letting  them  attack  us 
without  raising  a  hand.  It's  absurd.  I  defend  my- 
self, and  if  the  occasion  arises  I  hope  to  defend  all 
of  us." 

"That's  very  fine.  I  like  best  your  'us'.  It's 
clear  that  the  possession  of  power  has  finally  shown 
you  that  the  interests  of  all  of  the  few  are  identical. 
An  end  to  generous  illusions! 

"That's  the  history  of  the  leaders  of  the  Third 
Estate  and  even  of  the  nobility,  after  the  beautiful 
dream  of  the  Revolution.  Even  Montmorency 
and  La  Rochefoucauld  would  have  to  admit  the 
danger  of  letting  loose  all  sorts  of  mad  hopes." 

"Your  ancestors  are  very  fine,  sir." 

"Monsieur  ,Montperrier,"  cried  the  comtesse,  "I 
won't  let  monsieur  le  marquis  deprive  us  of  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  your  opinion  about  these  mag- 
nificent things  from  India.  Your  taste  is  so  good. 
Come,  look  at  what  can  be  done  with  a  simple 
thread  of  silk,  and  tell  us  what  you  think." 

"It  all  seems  wonderful  to  me,"  said  Mont- 
perrier,  absently;  and  he  turned  to  Deschars: 

"You  must  have  had  a  very  wonderful  voyage, 
monsieur.  In  England  I  once  saw  some  admirable 
cloth  that  one  of  my  friends,  the  Duke  of  Stamford, 
brought  back  from  India.  Later  I  was  told  that 
they  were  sent  out  to  Delhi  from  Manchester  and 
Macclesfield." 


THE  STRONGEST  161 

"You  couldn't  fool  anybody  in  India,"  answered 
Maurice,  quietly. 

"I  wouldn't  be  fooled,"  Claudia  put  in,  hastily. 
"We're  thinking  of  organizing  some  tableaux  vi- 
vants  and  I  count  on  you,  Monsieur  Montperrier,  to 
find  us  some  subjects.  M.  Deschars,  who  holds 
India  in  his  hand  as  you  hold  the  budget  commis- 
sion, is  going  to  reconstruct  some  historic  scene  in 
which  we  are  to  appear  with  peacocks  and  elephants 
and  tigers.  You  can  choose  a  part  for  yourself." 

"Among  the  animals?" 

"No.  I  see  you  as  some  sonorous  divinity  with  a 
flaming  head  and  arms  all  over,  very  long  arms,  as  in 
politics." 

"  You  flatter  me  much,  mademoiselle.  I  should  be 
content  with  the  part  of  a  slave,  at  your  feet." 

"You  wouldn't  do  it  at  all  well,  I  assure  you." 

"Has  Morgan  told  you  the  story  about  Me- 
lanie?"  asked  Mme.  du  Peyrouard,  who  thought 
that  her  brother  was  not  showing  to  advantage. 

"  I  should  say  so,"  answered  the  comtesse.  "  Clau- 
dia and  I  saw  the  prince's  young  victim  pass,  161-' 
lowed  by  the  dragging  footsteps  known  to  all  Paris. 
I  must  say  the  girl  looked  very  fine.  Quite  simple 
and  with  the  most  natural  air,  neither  proud  nor 
ashamed  of  what  she  had  done.'* 

"And  why  should  she  look  otherwise?"  asked 
Montperrier.  "It's  destiny.  She  discovered  it  a 
little  later  than  the  others.  Or  perhaps  she  thought 


162  THE  STRONGEST 

she  would  do  better  by  delaying.  In  that  case  you 
have  to  praise  her  business  sagacity." 

" I  think  you  are  hard,"  said  Puymaufray.  "Look 
at  these  girls.  They're  chosen  for  their  beauty. 
They're  made  to  please,  and  they're  far  more  seduc- 
tive than  many  of  the  patrons.  You  dress  them  the 
richest  way,  and  the  choice  of  an  hour  for  the  patron 
represents  a  year's  wages  to  the  mannequin.  You 
exhaust  every  resource  to  heighten  the  charm  of  their 
youth  and  beauty.  You  bring  them  in  front  of  a 
mirror  and  make  them  pose,  and  even  if  they  were 
angels  they  couldn't  help  noticing  that  the  gowns 
fit  them  ravishingly.  You  handle  them  and  turn 
them  round  and  round  as  if  they  were  automatic 
figures.  And  many  a  great  lady  who  is  irritated  by 
their  charm  takes  every  chance  to  show  her  scorn 
for  the  'inferior'  creatures." 

"Marquis,  you  are  as  moving  as  a  preacher  in  his 
pulpit,"  broke  in  the  comtesse,  touched  to  the  quick. 

"And  then,"  continued  Puymaufray,  as  if  he  had 
not  heard,  "the  thing  turns,  it  feels  that  it  is  a 
woman,  and  looks  at  the  ugly,  insolent  creature. 
They  say  to  themselves.  'If  she,  why  not  I?' 
Look  where  you  will,  there  is  no  answer." 

"There's  the  best  answer  in  the  world,"  replied 
Montperrier.  "It  is  that  things  are  so9  and  can't  be 
otherwise." 

"That's  just  the  question,  Mr.  Politician.  And  if 
your  ancestors,  and  mine,  for  that  matter,  hadn't 


THE  STRONGEST  163 

said  'Things  must  be  otherwise,'  many  of  us  wouldn't 
be  cutting  so  fine  a  figure  now." 

"Oh,  well;  let  them  rebel,  then,  as  our  fathers 
did." 

"That  is  what  they  are  doing,  with  the  only  weap- 
ons they  have.  Only  it  happens  that  now,  as  then, 
the  masters  brand  the  rebel  in  the  name  of  then- 
own  superior  morality." 

"Really,"  said  the  comtesse,  chilled  by  the  mar- 
quis's sermons,  "what's  the  use  of  discussing  what 
the  world  might  be  like?  It  is  what  it  is,  as  M. 
Montperrier  so  wisely  said  just  now.  It  is  a  great 
argument.  Can't  we  quietly  enjoy  what  has  been 
given  to  us  without  worrying  ourselves  with  impious 
recriminations?  They  are  impious  because  Provi- 
dence, I  think,  has  arranged  everything  for  the 
best!" 

"Morgan  says  that  his  mannequins  have  a  mania 
for  greatness,"  remarked  Claudia.  "I'm  not  sur- 
prised that  they  want  to  change  places  and  I'm  as 
sorry  for  them  as  you  are,  Uncle.  But  whatever  the 
excuse,  their  shame  contrasts  with  the  virtue  of 
others,  even  if  virtue  comes  easy  to  us." 

"Undoubtedly,  my  dear.  I'm  not  offering  you 
Melanie  as  an  example.  However,  if  you  could 
understand  how  much  is  meant  when  we  say  Us." 

"But  anyhow  it's  true  that  we  are  of  one  world; 
and  these  women,  with  or  without  their  Princes  de 
Luques,  are  of  another.  What  have  we  in  common? 


164  THE  STRONGEST 

Much  perhaps  by  birth;  nothing  by  social  necessity. 
Could  things  be  better  arranged?  I  have  neither 
the  time  nor  the  means  to  find  out.  I  go  on." 

"But  at  Ste.  Radegonde ?" 

"What  can  I  do  here?" 

"I  agree  with  Mile.  Harle,"  said  Montperrier, 
"that  you  have  to  choose  between  philosophizing 
and  living." 

"And  in  order  to  live,  lose  all  interest  in  life," 
answered  Puymaufray,  quoting. 

"I  swear  we're  very  emotional  about  Melanie," 
said  the  countess.  "Prince  de  Luques's  pretty 
little  mannequin  would  have  a  good  laugh  if  she 
could  hear  us.  Gentlemen,  let  us  not  go  into  the 
clouds.  There's  the  Church  for  that,  and  we  share 
its  merits  because  we  are  the  Church." 

"So,"  replied  Henri,  "all  the  joys  of  earth  and 
heaven  are  thrown  into  the  bargain." 

"We  can  hardly  do  with  less,"  said  the  comtesse, 
proudly.  "Can  we,  Claudia?" 

"I  hold  fast  to  to-day  and  I  want  to  get  everything 
out  of  it,"  said  Claudia.  "It  was  one  of  the  ancients 
that  said  that,  too,"  she  threw  out  at  Henri. 

"Beaten  with  your  own  weapons!"  cried  the  com- 
tesse. 

"Apparently  I  am  wrong,  madame.  It's  wrong 
to  try  to  put  old  thoughts  into  young  heads.  If  I 
were  Claudia's  age  I  wouldn't  worry  about  to- 


morrow." 


THE  STRONGEST  165 

"Most  nobly  surrendered.  I'm  going  to  make 
Luques  tell  me  the  true  story  of  M&anie  and  you'll 
see  there's  no  occasion  for  shedding  tears.  In  the 
first  place,  it's  useless;  and  then,  remember,  Claudia, 
that  crying  gives  you  wrinkles." 


CHAPTER  IX 

'HT^HE  committee  for  the  Old  and  Incorrigible 
met  that  evening  at  the  home  of  the  president, 
Mme.  la  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps.  Abbe 
Nathaniel  had  time,  after  twenty  charitable  enter- 
prises, to  receive  tattered  men  and  women,  old  offend- 
ers in  misery,  at  the  gates  of  prisons  and  the  doors 
of  hovels.  He  nourished  them  with  soup  and  holy 
words.  By  suitable  sermons  he  brought  them  back 
to  decency,  that  is  to  regret  sincerely  that  they  had 
ever  strayed  from  the  path  on  which  they  might  have 
found  tranquillity  of  body  and  peace  of  mind  in  the 
satisfaction  of  their  diverse  needs.  After  that  they 
died,  edified,  and  edifying,  and  made  place  for  others. 
For  the  Old  and  Incorrigible,  and  for  two  dozen 
other  charities,  the  abbe  begged  and  collected  and 
gave  with  generous  hands.  Under  his  catholic  faith 
the  blood  of  Israel  spoke  marvellously.  He  bought 
lands  and  sold;  made  and  unmade  plans;  constructed, 
built,  speculated — always  on  the  lookout  for  some 
bargain  for  his  poor.  He  had  the  double  virtue  of 
attracting  gold  and  coining  it  under  his  own  eyes. 
Baron  Oppert,  whom  ostentation  made  as  generous 
as  the  poor,  was  not  enough.  The  abbe's  agricul- 

168 


THE  STRONGEST  167 

tural  colony  in  Algeria  had  been  swept  by  locusts 
and  was  in  need  of  help.  The  baron,  when  con- 
sulted, said  that  something  must  be  arranged.  With 
that  recommendation  Abbe  Nathaniel  betook  him- 
self to  the  comtesse. 

"Charity  sales  are  terribly  overdone,"  she  re- 
marked. "We've  got  to  freshen  it  up  somehow, 
because  it  still  is  the  best  way  to  drag  money  out  of 
reluctant  givers.  You  see,  abbe,  you  can't  get  peo- 
ple to  climb  the  road  to  heaven  unless  you  strew  the 
path  with  some  of  the  seductions  of  the  Tempter." 

"You  know  the  weakness  of  the  human  heart, 
madame." 

The  comtesse  made  an  untranslatable  gesture 
which  might  have  meant :  "  There's  reason  enough.'* 

"Listen,"  she  said.  "You'll  begin  as  usual  by 
getting  some  of  the  surplus  stock  at  the  big  stores." 

"I've  done  that  so  often!" 

"Do  it  again.  You'll  always  get  them.  Mutual 
aid,  you  know.  Think  how  much  commerce  gains 
from  the  propaganda  of  the  Church." 

"Oh,  commerce  is  complaining  now  that  we're 
a  rival." 

"And  it's  not  so  far  from  right.  Yesterday  at  the 
Madeleine  I  got  a  little  religious  book  in  which  I 
found  an  advertisement  for  the  beer  of  the  Trappist 
Fathers." 

"  The  misfortune  of  this  age.  The  profane  and  the 
holy  should  aid  each  other." 


168  THE  STRONGEST 

"That's  exactly  what  you  must  say  in  the  stores. 
And  when  you've  made  your  collection,  I  will  take 
care  of  the  rest." 

"Madame,  you  are  my  guardian  angel  on  earth." 

"Because  I  expect  you  to  be  mine  in  heaven,  my 
dear  abbeV' 

It  was  as  result  of  this  conversation  that  the  com- 
mittee was  meeting,  with  Mme.  du  Peyrouard  as 
vice-president  and  Claudia  as  secretary. 

Harle  had  come  with  his  daughter  and  with  Puy- 
maufray.  Oppert  and  the  abbe  had  both  been 
summoned.  The  abbe  reported  that  the  goods  for 
the  sale  were  collected;  the  baron  gave  equally  good 
news  on  the  subject  of  booths  and  decorations.  And 
while  the  ladies  discussed  the  assignment  of  booths 
the  men  sat  in  an  adjoining  room  and  talked. 

"It  is  certain,"  the  abbe  was  saying,  "that  society 
is  divinely  organized.  Just  as  we  fail  to  appreciate 
the  daily  benefits  of  health,  so  we  are  not  sufficiently 
grateful  for  the  advantages  we  gain  from  the  social 
order,  in  which  the  hand  of  the  Infinite  Goodness 
can  be  seen.  Property,  the  security  of  person  and 
goods,  the  guarantees  of  impartial  justice,  the  liberty 
of  what  is  good — made  up  for  in  this  unhappy  time, 
alas!  by  the  license  of  things  that  are  evil — the  de- 
velopment of  noble  enterprises  by  the  Church,  these 
are  really  admirable  features  of  a  divine  plan." 

"There  are  shadows,"  murmured  Puymaufray. 

"Undoubtedly.     But  that  is  where  religion  enters 


THE  STRONGEST  169 

to  make  everything  right  again.  The  trial  of  misery 
decreed  by  providence  has  for  balance  the  marvels  of 
charity." 

"Look  at  the  abbe's  work,'*  said  Oppert.  ** Lis- 
ten to  these  women  worrying  themselves  in  order  to  do 
good  to  others." 

"I  admit  that  there  is  beauty  in  the  world,  although 
I  understand  it  another  way,"  answered  Puymaufray. 
Only  I  am  afraid  to  think  what  becomes  of  your 
humility  when  it  sets  out  to  compensate  the  evils 
decreed  by  Divine  Goodness." 

"What  about  the  work  in  there?" 

"Full  of  good  intentions.  I  am  the  last  one  to 
discourage  human  pity  which  sometimes  finds  its 
way  into  our  hearts.  There  are  beautiful  impulses 
in  men  of  all  ranks,  from  those  most  corrupted  by 
poverty  to  those  most  corrupted  by  wealth.  But 
in  the  immensity  of  evil  how  disproportionate  is  our 
aid  to  what  we  might  give.  I  listen  to  these  women 
because  I'm  urged  to.  And  you  can  judge  for  your- 
self how  well  their  sacrifices  for  charity  go  with  their 
own  pleasure." 

"That's  a  good  text  for  a  sermon;  it's  easy  to  see 
that  you  served  the  Pope.  You  remind  me  of  Father 
Anselm:  'Tremble,  women  of  the  world' " 

"Then  they  don't  tremble  at  all.     Just  listen." 

"We  must  excuse  the  infirmities  of  human  nature. 
A  good  deed  is  a  good  deed,  none  the  less." 

"And  besides,  religion  isn't  the  only  thing.  There's 


170  THE  STRONGEST 

ourselves,"  Harle  proclaimed,  emphatically.  "Social 
authority.  The  strongest,  who  are  the  best.  Every- 
thing that  increases  our  power  increases  the  happiness 
of  the  world,  for  as  we  grow  more  powerful  we  civilize, 
like  conquerors." 

"Yes,  you  do  show  some  eagerness  to  conquer," 
said  Henri. 

"And  that's  best  for  everyone." 

"You  say  so,  at  any  rate." 

"I  prove  it.  You  never  have  asked  me  about  my 
great  scheme,  which  I  am  now  working  on,  together 
with  the  baron  and  the  abbe.  It's  no  longer  a  secret, 
because  in  a  month  we'll  be  before  the  public." 

"I  don't  doubt  that  it  will  be  well  conceived  and 
methodically  executed." 

"It's  extraordinarily  simple.  I'm  becoming  a 
journalist." 

"What?" 

"You're  astonished?  The#  follow  my  line  of 
thought.  I  make  paper.  I  get  my  sheets  from 
Norway  and  Austria,  which  have  the  raw  material 
and  the  water  for  motor  power.  Austria  is  a  more 
industrial  country  and  carries  the  process  a  step 
further.  But  both  countries  stop  midway  and  I 
have  to  take  up  the  work  where  they  leave  it.  That's 
a  loss  of  power  and  of  time.  But  when  I  make  my 
paper  what  do  I  do  with  it?  I  hand  it  over  for 
other  people  to  destroy  its  original  whiteness  with 
print.  They  sell  it  at  a  good  price.  My  product  is 


THE  STRONGEST  171 

their  raw  material  just  as  Norway's  product  is  mine. 
But  why  shouldn't  I  complete  my  work?  Why  let 
someone  else  blacken  my  sheets  and  get  the  profit? 
This  writing  industry  is  only  recently  organized — 
it's  only  beginning  to  walk.  As  usual,  the  begin- 
ning is  anarchy.  Someone  must  come  to  group  all 
these  attempts,  to  organize  and  coordinate  the  work, 
for  the  greatest  possible  result.  So  I've  studied  this 
curious  business  thoroughly — gone  to  the  bottom  of 
it.  It's  strange  it  should  have  been  neglected  until 
now  by  the  great  organizers,  for,  all  things  considered, 
it  is  the  thing  that  makes  humanity  act.  Certainly, 
Henri,  you  never  have  seen  the  commercial  possibili- 
ties of  thought." 

"I  don't  even  know  what  you  mean  by  it." 

"I'm  not  surprised.  Listen  a  little  longer.  Writ- 
ing isn't  enough.  You  have  to  be  read.  Suppose 
you  wrote  the  profoundest  thing  in  the  world;  the 
secret  of  the  universe,  for  example.  Send  it  to  the 
library.  Who  can  read  it?  Not  even  the  greatest 
minds.  Or  write  the  last  word  on  science.  Half  a 
dozen  academicians  will  be  able  to  understand. 
That's  better  than  the  first  attempt.  But  I'm  afraid 
you'll  find  it  won't  pay  enough." 

"What  ar£  you  driving  at?" 

"At  this:  the  lower  you  come  down,  the  more 
numerous  your  readers.  You  see,  instead  of  trying 
to  impose  my  opinions  on  others,  like  all  the  pro- 
fessional writers,  I  am  going  to  give  the  product  that 


172  THE  STRONGEST 

will  please  the  greatest  number.  That's  the  method 
in  industry.  I  don't  make  the  kind  of  paper  I  choose, 
but  the  kind  I  can  sell.  And  the  economic  law  must 
hold  for  printed  paper  as  well  as  for  white  paper. 
The  largest  clientele — that's  the  masses — will  al- 
ways buy  printed  paper  if  it's  suitable  to  their 
tastes." 

"Yes.  It  has  already  been  remarked  that  papers 
are  edited  by  their  readers." 

"The  man  who  said  that  was  no  fool.  Come 
down  with  me  into  the  crowd  and  you'll  see  that  you 
must  lower  the  quality  of  your  thought  in  proportion 
as  you  get  deeper  into  intellectual  densities.  Try  to 
awaken  a  curiosity,  but  always  feed  it  with  suitable 
food.  I'm  not  saying  anything  against  the  pictures 
at  the  Louvre.  They  are  very  fine  things  in  their 
way.  But  what  can  the  masses  make  of  them? 
They  pass  by — indifferent — and  run  to  a  chromo 
bath  scene." 

"So,  if  I  understand  it,  you're  going  to  exploit  the 
rubbish  of  thought." 

"Not  thought  at  all,  as  you  use  the  word.  Facts. 
Doctrine  is  the  Church's  business.  People  will  turn 
to  the  catechism  for  the  last  word  without  my  telling 
them.  Perhaps  you'll  say  that  human  vanity  is  so 
great  that  even  the  most  ignorant  must  have  ideas. 
There  are,  in  fact,  certain  ancient  ideas  which  those 
who  have  gone  ahead  call  prejudices.  Time  has  made 
them  useful  in  the  conduct  of  life.  I  will  respect 


THE  STRONGEST  173 

them,  I  swear.  I  will  give  my  readers  ideas,  accepted 
ideas;  the  ideas  that  have  made  the  world  what  it  is 
and  must  keep  it  so." 

"Your  work  will  be  in  vain.  In  spite  of  you,  your 
writer  will  escape,  and  in  the  welter  of  stupidity  you 
will  find  a  word  which  will  be  the  seed  of  the  future." 

"Writer?  Who's  that?  I  don't  need  a  writer. 
I  don't  know  that  specimen  of  man.  If  there  are 
visionaries  who  want  to  write  books  let  those  read 
'em  that  like  'em.  I  need  only  schemes — and  that's 
where  I'm  progressive." 

"Decidedly  you're  right.  It  is  the  writing  busi- 
ness, as  you  call  it." 

"Ah,  you  understand  me  at  last.  I'm  leaving 
aside  the  relations  between  print  and  publicity  in  all 
sorts  of  affairs,  good  and  bad.  We  progress  in  that 
line,  too." 

"You  were  trying  to  prove,  a  few  moments  ago, 
that  your  aggrandizement  would  be  a  benefit  to 
everyone.  And  all  you  are  showing  me  is  one  in- 
dustry adding  itself  to  another." 

"I  am  not  done  yet.  Selling  my  printed  paper, 
which  is  made  like  every  other  piece  of  goods  for  the 
maximum  market,  is  good.  But  the  significance  of 
what  is  written,  of  the  facts  disclosed  and  inter- 
preted, the  daily  commentaries  adapted  to  the  rather 
low  state  of  public  sentiment,  all  this  moves  the 
changeable  crowd,  determines  opinion,  the  sovereign 
of  the  day,  not  by  violating  its  spirit,  as  presumptuous 


174.  THE  STRONGEST 

radicals  try  to  do,  but  by  accommodating  itself  to 
the  ancient  habits  of  thought  and  by  extracting  from 
it  all  possible  advantage." 

"In  other  words,  accepted  ideas,  fundamentally 
what  we  see  every  day,  appear  to  you  to  be  a  better 
field  of  exploitation  than  the  need  for  new  ideas  that 
make  for  better  deeds." 

"The  question  is  higher  than  that,  monsieur," 
interrupted  the  baron  who  was  fidgeting  in  his  chair. 
"The  thing  that  struck  me  in  Harle's  venture  is 
that  it  is  adequate  in  view  of  the  actual  principle 
by  which  men  are  governed.  The  problem  is  no 
longer  how  to  affect  the  will  of  a  monarch  whose  will 
carries  the  crowd.  To-day  we  are  bound  to  act 
upon  the  hydra-headed  monster  itself,  by  sugges- 
tions— not  by  ideas  (that  would  be  madness) — and 
by  sentiments  acceptable  to  the  crowd.  That 
seems  risky,  doesn't  it?  Well,  it's  simplicity  itself, 
when  once  you  realize  that  the  great  movements  of 
public  spirit  are  of  short  duration,  while  the  common 
sentiments  of  all  humanity — which  are  moderate 
and  I  would  almost  say  mediocre — become  the  in- 
struments for  sure  and  durable  things.  The  con- 
servative is  timid  by  nature  and  dares  not  attack 
the  masses  because  he  doesn't  know  what  to  say  to 
them.  He  stupidly  bemoans  the  spirit  of  his  time 
and  wastes  himself  trying  to  revive  a  dead  past. 
The  radical  holds  marvellous  shining  pictures 
before  the  eyes  of  the  masses,  draws  them  along  with 


THE  STRONGEST  175 

him,  and  scatters  ruin  and  confusion.  Well,  we  will 
now  go  to  the  masses  ourselves.  We  will  generously 
come  down  to  them.  We  shall  be  able  to  profit 
by  the  prime  lesson  of  the  Revolution,  which  made 
the  mistake  of  making  the  greatest  number  the 
principle  of  action  whereas  the  greatest  number 
can  only  be  an  agent,  because  of  the  solidarity  of 
permanent  common  interests — an  agent  of  conser- 
vatism itself." 

"That's  a  curious  idea." 

"It  is  not  an  idea.  It  is  the  statement  of  a  law  of 
social  mechanics.  Universal  suffrage,  which  people 
stupidly  are  afraid  of,  is  the  prime  force  of  inertia. 
For  twenty  years  our  politicians  have  been  awaiting 
movement,  an  impulse  to  move;  look  at  the  result. 
Action,  in  movement  or  thought,  comes  from  the 
individual,  from  the  man  who  is  different  from  his 
fellowmen.  The  crowd  is  the  resistance  which  he 
must  overcome.  The  crowd  is  like  the  treetop — 
it  lives  by  its  roots.  If  you  want  to  affect  a  whole 
forest  at  once  you  go  to  the  roots.  The  great  social 
merit  of  M.  Harle's  scheme  is  that  he  aims  for  the 
roots.  That's  where  Archimedes  wanted  to  put  his 
lever.  Applied  there,  it  can  move  the  world." 

"And  what  about  the  branches  and  flowers  and 
fruits?  What  about  the  liberty  of  the  treetops, 
baron?" 

"They  used  to  chop  off  the  particularly  flourishing 
twigs  when  they  grew  too  fast." 


176  THE  STRONGEST 

"And  you  are  afraid  of  the  liberty  of  life?" 
"Say  of  the  savagery  of  life,  marquis.  Who  knows 
the  value  of  liberty  more  than  I?  It's  a  precious 
plant  you've  got  to  fertilize  with  gold — do  not  pro- 
test; with  gold,  I  say — in  order  to  kill  license  at  the 
source.  Always  you  must  act  at  the  root — Harle's 
principle.  Thinkers,  as  people  say,  are  at  liberty  to 
write  for  a  half  dozen  of  their  contemporaries.  They 
have  centuries  in  which  to  change  the  world.  But 
we  are  men  of  to-day,  we  are.  The  liberty  we  need 
is  the  liberty  of  enlightened  minds  who  are  in  the 
employ  of  the  strongest  and  deduce  from  our  acts  a 
fitting  philosophy.  I  assure  you  that  that  liberty 
will  not  suffer  at  our  hands." 

"And  what  about  democratic  government?" 
"It's  only  a  reduction  of  the  crowd.  The  law 
does  not  change.  If  you  want  to  move  the  crowd, 
look  for  these  feelings  which  are  common  to  all 
people,  and  if  you  want  to  enlarge  your  sphere  of 
action,  bring  down  the  methods  to  the  lowest  level. 
That  is  a  law  of  the  world.  That  explains  Harle. 
When  he  wanted  to  extend  an  industry  based  on  the 
expression  of  thought,  the  power  of  man  over  man, 
he  was  naturally  led  to  the  industrial  formula  of 
government  itself." 

"That's  it,"  said  Harle.  "The  government  of  the 
strongest  which  always  has  been  and  always  will  be, 
under  different  names.  I  think  it's  something  to 
industrialize  the  diffusion  of  thought,  the  sovereignty 


THE  STRONGEST  177 

of  opinion,  to  make  it  bring  in  the  greatest  profit  to 
the  few  and,  through  the  few,  to  all." 

"In  short,  you  are  reducing  government  to  the 
condition  of  an  industry  in  which  you  are  the  over- 
seer." 

"  That's  too  simple  a  way  of  looking  at  it.  Surely, 
the  more  you  organize  government  on  industrial 
lines  the  less  waste  of  energy  there  will  be,  the  less 
scattering  of  power.  But  what  makes  the  factory 
easy  for  us  is  that  we  always  have  the  upper  hand 
over  the  men  and  no  matter  what  happens  we  have 
the  last  word.  The  problem  of  government  is  harder 
because  out  of  the  confusion  of  the  weak  we  have  to 
formulate  the  will  of  the  strong.  Guizot  himself 
thought  that  was  impossible.  I  am  going  to  prove 
practically  how  much  you  can  get  out  of  the  masses 
if  you  enter  into  its  spirit  and  speak  its  language. 
Let  the  politicians  follow  me  and  back  me  up  if  they 
want  to,  in  order  to  take  advantage  of  the  crowd." 

"In  short,  you  are  an  overseer  as  I  said." 

"If  you're  talking  of  vulgar  profit,  that's  a  trifling 
consideration  with  me.  I  consider  it  only  as  a  just 
reward  for  the  work  of  my  intelligence,  and  I  judge 
my  success  by  it.  But  what  is  that  in  comparison 
with  the  benevolent  glory  of  a  master  who  leads  his 
country,  in  peace  and  in  war,  to  the  destiny  shaped 
by  Providence?" 

"That  is  all  that  our  Pope  requires,"  said  the  abbe. 
"He  understands  the  needs  of  modern  society  and 


178  THE  STRONGEST 

tries  to  speak  directly  to  the  masses,  not  to  the 
feeble  governments  of  a  day,  without  courage  and 
without  authority.  M.  Harle  expressed  it  very  well 
just  now.  Let  those  who  need  doctrine  come  to  us, 
the  guardians  of  the  everlasting  fountain." 

"There's  the  demand  for  new  things,  which  you're 
not  counting  on  at  all,"  said  Puymaufray. 

"Man's  pleasure  is  to  change  things,"  said  Oppert. 
"His  necessity  is  to  conserve.  There  is  only  one 
way  to  reconcile  this  contradiction.  That  is  to  put 
new  names  on  the  old  things.  The  masses  are  satis- 
fied with  that." 

"That's a  good  lesson  in  politics, "said  Puymaufray. 
"I  won't  argue  about  it.  I  marvel  at  it.  I  am  only 
sorry  that,  according  to  your  own  confession,  you 
are  in  a  position  to  affect  only  the  lowest  feelings  of 
humanity." 

"You  are  misconstruing  the  sense  of  my  words," 
said  Harle.  "We  are  talking  about  the  fundamen- 
tal feelings,  the  feelings  common  to  everybody, 
which  are  only  lower  in  the  metaphorical  sense 
of  the  word,  because  everything  else  is  based  upon 
them." 

"But  you  are  not  basing  anything  on  them." 

''Because  the  work  is  already  done.  The  Church 
has  said  the  first  and  last  word  of  life.  We  have 
nothing  to  seek.  We  must  preserve.  You  know 
the  innovators  always  bring  a  confusion  of  contra- 
dictory propositions.  The  Church  has  unity,  the 


THE  STRONGEST  179 

authority  of  eighteen  centuries.  It  is  Force.  There 
is  nothing  else  to  say." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  countess,  coming  in  fol- 
lowed by  the  committee,  "we  shall  soon  be  ready  to 
open  our  bazaar  in  the  house  of  Monsieur  le  baron 
Oppert.  In  order  to  give  the  affair  a  new  twist  we 
have  decided  to  send  out  tickets,  to  a  chosen  few,  for 
some  tableaux  vivants  which  will  be  presented  in  the 
home  of  M.  Harle.  I  hope,  monsieur  abbe,  that 
the  tableaux  vivants  will  please  you,  because  you  will 
know  in  advance  by  what  feelings  they  are  prompted." 

"Surely,  madame.  You  can  take  scenes  from  the 
Bible  or  from  the  lives  of  the  Saints." 

"We  thought  of  that.  But  the  field  has  been 
pnetty  thoroughly  gleaned.  Couldn't  we  join  the 
sacred  and  the  profane?" 

"Why  not?"  answered  the  abbe.  "If  you  avoid 
anything  shocking." 

"That's  the  difficulty.  In  order  to  utilize  his 
Indian  things,  M.  Deschars  has  proposed  to  repre- 
sent some  scenes  from  the  life  of  Buddha.  Isn't 
he  a  false  god?" 

"Many  pagans,  notably  the  Chinese,  worship  him 
as  divine.  There  are  dangers  in  that." 

"We  need  a  lot  of  money,  Father,  and  I  must  tell 
you  that  M.  Deschars's  tableaux  would  be  the  hit  of 
the  evening." 

"You  make  me  reconsider,  madame.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  this  Buddha  was  a  very  modest  and  a  very 


180  THE  STRONGEST 

good  man  who  arrived  on  earth  many  centuries 
before  Our  Lord  and  neverthless  had  some  gleams  of 
the  future  truth." 

"A  forerunner,  then?" 

"I  wouldn't  say  that.  Because  he  was  plunged 
into  an  abyss  of  errors,  in  accordance  with  his  time. 
Nonetheless,  he  was  son  of  a  king  and  preached  re- 
nunciation of  the  world,  austerity  of  life,  poverty, 
and  control  of  the  appetites.  He  even  set  an  ex- 
ample of  these  things." 

"But  that's  very  fine." 

"Hasn't  the  Church  preserved  certain  Indian  cere- 
monies?" asked  Puymaufray. 

"Just  what  I  said;  these  people  had  their  flashes." 

"In  that  case  we  cannot  offend  religion  by  repre- 
senting certain  features  of  history  in  which  the 
Church  was  not  concerned,"  said  the  countess. 

"Not  at  all,  surely." 

"You  relieve  me  of  a  great  doubt,  my  dear  abbe. 
Now  I  can  answer  for  our  success." 

"Well,  Claudia,  you  are  silent,"  said  Puymaufray. 
"I'm  sure  you're  thinking  of  the  king's  son  who 
preached  renouncing  the  world." 

"At  this  moment,  Uncle,  I  am  wondering  how  we 
could  make  interesting  tableaux  out  of  such  an  ex- 
cess of  virtue." 

"You  aren't  thinking  of  a  vision  of  austerity." 

"Well,  you  don't  need  cloth  of  gold  for  that." 

"It  is  not  forbidden,"  said  the  abbe,  "to  reconcile 


THE  STRONGEST  181 

moral  beauty  with  art  in  order  to  edify  some  and 
console  others." 

"It's  absolutely  necessary,"  said  the  countess,  "in 
order  that  the  poor  rich  can  win  salvation  at  the 
same  time  as  the  happy  poor." 

"Then  let's  win  salvation  together,"  said  Puy- 
maufray.  "We'll  always  have  the  consolation  of 
having  enjoyed  the  good  things  of  earth." 

"Which  are  not  to  be  sneered  at,"  remarked  Clau- 
dia. "M.  Deschars  ought  to  show  us  a  sublimity 
which  adapts  itself  to  our  weaknesses." 

"Never  mind,  dear,"  the  countess  assured  her, 
"we  aren't  going  to  dress  you  as  a  beggar  girl.  If 
you  wish  it  we'll  ask  M.  Montperrier  to  talk  things 
over  with  the  abbe  and  choose  the  subjects.  M. 
Montperrier,  who  is  very  talented,  excels  in  theat- 
ricals. If  Mme.  du  Peyrouard  asks  him,  he'll  help 


us." 


"If  I  ask  him  he'll  find  a  hundred  pretexts  to 
squirm  out.  But  a  word  from  you,  dear  Countess, 
or  from  Mile.  Harle,  and  he'll  accept." 

"Good.     I'll  ask  him  to  come  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  X 


W'HEN  Mme.  du  Peyrouard  and  Montperrier 
arrived  the  next  day  they  found  Claudia 
already  busy  ordering  flowers  for  the  ba- 
zaar. The  young  politician  was  very  zealous,  but  he 
mentioned  some  serious  business  which  did  not  leave 
him  free  to  dispose  of  his  time.  That  was  not  all. 
He  was  being  reproached  for  his  worldliness.  His 
enemies,  his  jealous  friends,  taxed  him  with  being 
frivolous.  He  laughed  at  them.  But  those  whom 
he  led  and  who  took  it  on  themselves  to  arrange  his 
life,  complained  that  he  was  too  contemptuous  of 
stupid  criticism.  What  wouldn't  people  say  when 
they  heard  that  he  was  organizing  tableaux  vivants  f 
They  always  managed  to  get  something  mean  to 
say  against  him.  He  was  even  reproached  for 
going  to  salons  which  led  to  the  Academy,  as  if  he 
could  be  thinking  of  a  candidacy  already.  He  was 
undisturbed  by  this  gossip,  but  politics  made  him 
pay  dearly  for  his  independence. 

"I  see,  my  dear  girl,  that  you'll  have  to  plead  with 
M.  Montperrier  yourself,"  said  the  countess.  "  Other- 
wise I'm  beaten." 

"I   couldn't   take  the  responsibility,"  answered 

182 


THE  STRONGEST  183 

Claudia.  "After  what  we've  just  heard  it  would  be 
cruel  for  us  to  enlist  M.  Montperrier  in  such  a  dan- 
gerous adventure." 

"Your  wishes  would  be  enough,  mademoiselle," 
said  Montperrier,  bowing.  "Your  mockery  is  more 
than  enough.  I  am  at  your  orders." 

"Perhaps  you  will  regret  it." 

"If  my  services  please  you,  then  I  am  paid  in 
advance  for  my  trouble." 

Deschars  came  in  at  these  words  and  was  dis- 
agreeably struck  by  the  tone  of  self-confidence  in 
the  trifling  conversation. 

"Here  you  are  at  last,"  cried  the  countess,  "we've 
been  waiting  for  you.  I've  already  discovered  that 
your  Buddha  isn't  a  false  god,  as  I  feared.  Abbe 
Nathaniel  was  very  literal.  He  has  allowed  us  to 
represent  scenes  from  the  life  of  your  prophet  so 
long  as  they  don't  seem  to  interfere  with  the  teachings 
of  the  Church." 

"I  wouldn't  have  thought  of  proposing  such  a 
thing,  madame." 

"The  abbe,  who  knows  everything,  says  that 
Buddha  was  son  of  a  king  and  became  a  beggar  or 
something  like  that." 

"Quite,  madame." 

"We've  been  admiring  that  feature  of  it.  You 
aren't  afraid  of  making  it  a  fad  among  the  families 
that  aspire  to  the  presidency?" 

"No;  nor  in  any  other  families." 


184  THE  STRONGEST 

"That's  what  I  think.  So  we'll  take  the  chance. 
Now  tell  us  the  legend  and  above  all  don't  dress  Mile. 
Harle  like  a  beggar.  She  seemed  gravely  worried 
about  that  yesterday  and  I  had  to  reassure  her. 
Don't  you  think,  Claudia,  that  two  scenes  will  be 
enough  for  India?  Piety  must  dominate  the  tab- 
leaux. We  owe  that  much  to  the  sentiments  that 
inspire  pur  work." 

"I  think  two  tableaux  will  be  enough.  The  re- 
ligious scenes  will  be  simpler  to  do." 

"But,  mademoiselle,"  said  Montperrier,  "suppose 
I  ask  you  to  put  on  the  visit  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba 
to  Solomon?" 

"Oh,  that's  a  lovely  idea,"  cried  Claudia.  "We 
can  show  the  splendours  of  the  Orient  in  it,  too." 

"Decidedly,  Monsieur  Montperrier,  you  are  indis- 
pensable, "  said  the  countess.  "  I'm  sure  you'll  do  us 
a  marvellous  setting.  All  right  now,  Monsieur 
Deschars,  we're  waiting  for  Buddha." 

"Certainly.  I  will  give  you  only  two  scenes,  as 
you  wish.  The  departure  of  the  prince,  when  he 
leaves  the  royal  palace  to  preach  renunciation  of  the 
world;  and  then  the  scene  of  his  temptation  under  the 
Tree  of  Knowledge." 

"Explain  that." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  give  you  a  lecture  and  we 
needn't  conform  strictly  to  the  legend.  The  prince, 
Siddhartha,  never  went  out  of  the  palace  of  the  King 
Kapilavastu,  his  father.  .  .  ." 


THE  STRONGEST  185 

"Do  you  insist  upon  those  names?" 

"Oh,  no!  They  aren't  important  because  there 
are  no  words  in  the  tableau." 

"Well,  perhaps  we  can  have  a  footnote  on  the  pro- 
gramme; but  that  will  discourage  people." 

"Then  perhaps  we'd  better  not  have  a  footnote." 

"Well,  if  those  names  are  examples,  perhaps  not. 
All  the  same,  tell  us  the  story." 

"Well,  the  books  say  that  when  he  left  the  palace 
in  his  carriage  he  met  in  succession  an  old  man  in  the 
last  stages  of  exhaustion,  a  sick  man,  and  a  dead 


man." 


"Heavens!"  cried  Claudia.  "You're  not  going  to 
show  that!" 

"No,  mademoiselle.  Please,  let  me  finish.  Later, 
a  religious  mendicant  came  up.  .  .  ." 

"What,  were  there  mendicant  orders  in  those 
days?"  asked  the  countess. 

"Yes,  madame." 

"Good.  I  see  the  story.  The  prince  wanted  to 
enter  the  order.  I  told  the  abbe.  He  is  a  forerun- 


ner." 


"You  have  guessed  it,  madame.  He  conceives 
the  idea  of  teaching  people  to  overcome  weakness, 
illness,  death,  all  the  miseries  of  mankind." 

"By  contemplating  eternal  things.  I  know  the 
rest.  He  sinks  himself  in  God.  It's  admirable. 
Only  your  story  isn't  new.  There's  the  story  of  St. 
Francis  of  Assisi." 


186  THE  STRONGEST 

"Two  thousand  years  later." 

"What's  the  difference  to  usP" 

"Yes,  but,"  said  Claudia,  "if  we  do  St.  Francis  of 
Assisi,  where  do  these  Indian  things  come  in?" 

"That  settles  it,  dear  child.  Let's  get  on  with 
Buddha.  I  see  the  tableau.  The  prince  is  in  his 
carriage.  The  whole  court  is  at  the  walls.  The 
women  are  lamenting,  and  show  their  regret — with 
appropriate  gestures.  The  old  man  and  the  sick 
man  and  the  beggar  give  the  effect  of  contrast.  Noth- 
ing could  be  more  moral.  Your  tableau  can  pass. 
And  the  other?" 

"The  other  is  quite  simple.  It  is  the  temptation 
under  the  Tree  of  Knowledge." 

"You're  sure  it  isn't  a  parody  of  our  sacred  Book?" 

"Absolutely." 

"There's  no  serpent?" 

"No,  no!  Buddha  is  tempted  by  the  daughters 
of  the  demon  Papiyan." 

"And  what  do  these  young  women  do?" 

"They  express — by  their  poses." 

"Oh,  yes.    Very  good.    I  hope  the  prince  resists." 

"If  he  didn't,  madame,  I  wouldn't  speak  of  him 
to  you." 

"The  second  picture  can  be  utterly  charming,  and 
it  teaches  absolutely  exemplary  morals.  All  the 
advantages  combined.  My  compliments.  It  won't 
be  better  than  the  Queen  of  Sheba  because  you  can't 
get  ahead  of  M.  Montperrier.  But  it  will  be  very 


THE  STRONGEST  187 

good.  Now,  gentlemen,  you  must  bring  us  some 
sketches  in  about  three  days  and  we'll  go  over  them. 
Then  we'll  choose  our  artists  and  we'll  go  on  to  the 
serious  question  of  the  costumes  while  you  get  the 
scenery." 

"That's  decided,  then,"  said  Montperrier.  "I'll 
see  Wilfrid  Leigh.  They  say  his  religious  paintings 
are  too  modern.  So  he'll  suit  us  exactly.  Our 
Queen  of  Sheba  must  be  of  the  world." 

"And  I'll  go  into  the  Guimet  Museum  and  con- 
sult some  portfolios." 

"I  beg  you  not  to  be  too  exact.  We  must  have 
fantasy.  Your  India  must  be  suitable  to  the  taste 
of  Paris,  sir." 

Deschars  admired  the  skill  of  the  countess  in  put- 
ting him  in  an  unfavourable  light  while  seeming  to 
be  perfectly  friendly.  He  felt  the  effects  she  created, 
but  was  helpless.  Vexed  and  awkward,  he  let  him- 
self be  monopolized  by  his  beautiful  enemy  while 
Montperrier  developed  his  ideas  to  Claudia  and 
conferred  with  her  on  the  disposition  of  cloths  or 
flowers,  discussed  the  Queen  of  Sheba  tableau,  and 
suggested  the  representation  of  the  "Marriage  at 
Cana"  after  Veronese. 

"I'm  a  fool,"  thought  Deschars.  He  was  simply 
in  love — too  sincerely  affected  to  be  able  to  play  a 
game.  Montperrier's  rushing  shocked  him  the  more 
because  it  seemed  to  please  Claudia.  The  Comtesse 
de  Fourchamps  cruelly  dealt  him  the  final  blow. 


188  THE  STRONGEST 

"Claudia,  dearest  child,"  she  cried,  "y°u  mustn't 
monopolize  M.  Montperrier.  We  all  need  to  hear 
his  opinions,  and  I  can  see  by  M.  Deschars's  eyes  that 
he  wants  to  ask  him  some  questions." 

(Montperrier  excused  himself  with  graceful  im- 
pertinence. But  in  that  moment  Deschars  saw  the 
enterprise  revealed.  Montperrier  was  a  suitor  for 
Claudia's  hand,  and  the  countess  was  conducting  the 
intrigue.  The  unhappy  man  trembled.  Before  his 
eyes,  under  the  mocking  insult  of  smiling  lips,  passed 
the  vision  of  complete  catastrophe:  the  triumph  of 
the  world  over  a  love  that  had  only  truth  on  its  side. 
He  saw  Claudia  hesitating  at  the  cross-roads  and  was 
terror-stricken  by  the  irresistible  force  of  his  enemies. 
Yet  he  loved — and,  therefore  wished  to  believe.  He 
put  spurs  to  his  sorrow  and  joined  battle  at  once.) 

"Oh,  yes.  I  need  your  priceless  advice  to  make 
India  fashionable  in  Paris." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  much.  I'd  need  you  much  more  at 
Delhi.  We're  all  Parisians  here." 

"If  I  dared,  I'd  say  you  were  right.  Paris  isn't 
very  great  when  you  come  from  the  wide  world." 

"We  lack  the  gilded  banks  of  the  Ganges,  and 
the  burning  skies,  and  the  dancing  girls  in  the  moon- 
light, "said  the  countess;  "but  still,  I  thought  Paris 
still  held  its  place." 

"We  can  say  that  proudly,  madame,  and  still  re- 
gret that  the  Parisian  obstinately  insists  on  thinking 
himself  the  centre  of  the  universe." 


THE  STRONGEST  189 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  such  small  prejudices. 
How  do  you  like  the  compliment,  Claudia?" 

"You  have  a  terrible  way  of  putting  things, 
madame.  I  was  talking  of  the  Parisian  who  never 
leaves  Paris.  Mile.  Harle  has  just  come  from  the 
country  where  she  has  seen  people  quite  different 
from  society  in  the  Bois." 

"Paris  on  trial  before  a  jury  of  thinkers,"  said 
Montperrier,  scornfully.  "Will  you  tell  me  why 
every  thinking  man  looks  toward  Paris,  and  expects 
something  from  Paris?" 

"That  isn't  so  true  as  it  used  to  be  unfortunately," 
parried  Deschars.  "Besides,  I  don't  think  we're 
talking  about  the  same  Paris." 

"In  the  eighteenth  century,  Paris — social  Paris — 
held  the  eyes  of  the  civilized  world." 

"There  are  times  when  the  eighteenth  century 
seems  very  far  off." 

"That's  because  we're  at  the  end  of  the  nineteenth, 
Monsieur  Deschars,"  argued  Claudia.  "  That  changes 
much.  I  come  from  the  country,  it's  true,  and  things 
weren't  bad  down  there.  But  I  like  it  up  here  and 
I  can't  believe  that  there's  anything  anywhere  finer 
than  life  in  Paris;  of  course  I'm  speaking  of  the  Paris 
that  I  know.  When  I  am  old  and  incapable  of 
pleasure,  I'll  meditate  on  the  vanity  of  things  here 
below.  While  I  await  that  day  I  am  going  to  follow 
my  uncle's  last  words  of  advice:  give  myself  up  to 
youth!" 


190  THE  STRONGEST 

"And  you  are  right!"  muttered  Deschars.  "The 
trouble  with  Paris  now  is  that  even  its  young  people 
are  old,  tired  out;  they  can't  think  or  act.  The 
young;  they're  those  that  have  generous  impulses 
in  their  hearts — who  believe,  who  have  a  great  pur- 
pose in  life — who  fight  against  the  disillusions  of  the 
world,  and  refuse  to  surrender  even  when  they  are 
beaten.  Our  ill-natured  youth  with  its  mean  plans, 
its  shrivelled  ambitions,  mortified  with  its  desire  to 
mislead,  is  really  old.  What  can  it  know  of  the  joy 
of  living,  since  it  knows  only  a  pitiable  life  of  false- 
hood?" 

"Come,  come,  Monsieur  Deschars,"  retorted  the 
countess,  "what  has  our  youth  done  to  you?  Per- 
haps you  are  right?  M.  Montperrier,  who  is  engaged 
in  active  life,  sometimes  says  nearly  the  same  thing. 
Let  us  begin  by  setting  a  good  example.  Let  us  get 
to  work — on  our  tableaux." 

Deschars  was  in  a  hurry  to  see  Puymaufray  and 
tell  him  of  his  discovery:  the  open  pretensions  of 
Montperrier  and  the  too-obvious  complicity  of  the 
countess.  Montperrier  made  it  a  point  to  leave 
before  his  rival,  but  his  sister,  who  had  kept  in  the 
background,  stayed  to  cover  his  retreat.  But  Clau- 
dia was  no  longer  expansive.  She  suddenly  became 
silent,  thoughtful,  uneasy,  and  discontent.  Mme. 
Marie-Therese  could  not  get  a  word  from  her  on  the 
way  home  in  the  coup6. 

Why    should    Deschars' s   lofty   disinterestedness 


THE  STRONGEST  191 

seem  less  bearable  to  the  young  girl  for  exposing 
Montperrier's  pretentions  in  all  their  pettiness? 
What  could  the  lonely  virtue  of  truth  do  in  a  torn 
soul  against  all  the  powers  of  the  world?  Deschars 
stood  out  against  the  world,  but  where  would  his 
prowess  bring  him?  He  could  not  impose  himself 
on  the  world  by  force  of  genius,  and  men  of  lofty 
ideas  were  all  too  often  honoured  only  after  they 
were  dead,  crushed  in  the  embrace  of  the  strongest. 
There  was  a  hidden  grandeur.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
most  beautiful,  the  most  worthy  of  admiration — on 
the  part  of  a  philosopher  contemptuous  of  the  world. 
But  that  was  too  much  of  the  sublime  for  a  young^ 
heart  tempted  by  immediate  joys.  Montperrier,, 
mediocre  though  he  was,  was  gifted;  he  had  address,, 
elegance,  and  the  advantage  of  being  in  the  service 
of  the  master  powers  of  the  world.  Undoubtedly 
he  could  be  considered  as  a  dupe,  a  little  fellow  on 
great  parliamentary  stilts.  What  was  the  difference?' 
A  superior  trick  could  make  his  power  real  by  means; 
of  a  marriage  of  money. 

So  spoke  the  Pannetier  blood,  which,  by  a  mys- 
terious law,  Henri  might  have  transmitted  with- 
out ever  being  tainted  with  it  himself.  Pannetier  or 
Puymaufray?  The  last  of  both  races  had  recog- 
nized their  kinship  in  the  sale  of  body  and  soul,, 
where  each  one  brought  his  share  of  greed  to  the  en- 
dowment of  the  succeeding  generation.  Were  the  sins 
of  the  fathers  to  descend  upon  the  innocent  child? 


192  THE  STRONGEST 

Or  would  the  daughter  of  Claire  Mornand  find  her- 
self, as  her  mother  before  her,  in  full  resistance 
against  the  social  domination  of  the  strongest? 

Two  powers  disputed  possession  of  her  soul:  Dom- 
inic Harle,  an  example  of  active  happiness,  and 
Henri  de  Puymaufray,  thoughtful  and  morose — all 
love,  while  the  other  was  prodigal  with  pleasures. 
The  heights  tempted  Claudia,  but  on  her  first  flight 
the  attraction  of  the  world  smashed  her  young  wings 
and  brought  her  down.  She  found  a  happy  refuge 
in  the  heart  of  her  godfather.  She  would  have  sur- 
rendered long  ago  without  his  warm  words  of  un- 
wearying tenderness.  Which  one  really  loved  her? 
Which  one  had  received  the  charge  of  watching  over 
her  from  her  dying  mother?  Who  was  it  whom 
neither  rebuffs  from  Harl6  nor  her  own  frivolity 
could  discourage?  Apart  from  her  own  failure  Clau- 
dia saw  the  pain  she  might  cause  her  godfather.  No, 
she  would  not  fail.  She  would  not  be  taken  in  by 
the  seductions  of  the  world.  It  seemed  brilliant,  but 
it  must  be  bad,  since  her  godfather  held  it  so.  She 
would  not  be  beaten.  "I  will  not,  /  mil  not!"  she 
said  to  herself.  And  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  a 
voice  answered,  "Can  you  resist?" 

While  Mme.  du  Peyrouard  and  the  countess  dis- 
cussed their  plan  of  campaign,  Maurice  Deschars 
sought  out  Puymaufray  and  told  him  the  news  in 
one  brief  exclamation: 


THE  STRONGEST  193 

"Montperrier  wants  to  marry  Claudia.  The 
countess  is  on  his  side.  We  are  lost!" 

At  first  Henri  would  not  admit  "lost" — in  any 
way. 

"You  must  have  expected  that  Claudia's  hand 
wouldn't  be  yours  without  a  struggle,"  he  said.  "I've 
heard  of  many  rivals  already.  Given  time,  they'll 
hear  of  the  bargain  from  New  York  to  San  Francisco. 
Fortunately  Dominic  despises  the  idea  of  restoring 
the  fortunes  of  a  ruined  clubman.  He  hasn't  worked 
in  order  to  pay  off  some  prodigal's  debts,  and  he  is 
beginning  to  think  that  he  may  as  well  be  an  ancestor 
himself.  Claudia  is  guarded  on  every  side.  Mont- 
perrier has  on  his  side  his  political  advancement  and 
the  help  of  the  countess.  We  should  have  foreseen 
that.  However,  I  trust  to  Claudia,  who  will  be  able 
to  read  Montperrier's  soul  like  a  book.  Trust  her 
more.  Trust  yourself  more.  I  told  you  that  before. 
I  can't  head  her  off  from  Montperrier  or  from  any- 
body. You  must  make  her  love  you." 

"Oh!  If  it  were  enough  to  love  her  and  to  tell 
her!" 

"It  is  enough  to  love,  if  you  love  with  the  energy 
of  a  man  that  is  confident  of  victory,  and  if  you  put 
everything  into  your  love." 

"And  you?  Have  you  ever  loved  that  way?  Tell 
me!" 

"Yes — when  I  loved  badly.  When  the  true  love 
came,  my  will  was  captive,  with  all  the  rest  of  me." 


194  THE  STRONGEST 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  I  can't  tell  you  what  to  do.  Now  you  want 
oie  to  say  that  I'm  here  to  help?  You  know  I  am!" 

"Yes.    I  wanted  you  to  tell  me." 

Meanwhile,  the  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps  thought 
deeply.  Her  friendship  for  Mme.  du  Peyrouard  and 
her  brother  could  not  be  in  doubt.  She  was  ready 
to  help  them  with  all  her  power.  But  her  help  must 
accord  with  her  own  circumstances.  Long  ago,  in 
an  hour  of  weariness,  she  had  had  a  discreet  friend- 
ship with  M.  Montperrier,  at  the  beginning  of  his 
career.  He  had  the  art  of  not  remembering,  grateful 
in  anticipation  of  the  service  that  was  still  to  come. 
She  was  settling  her  account  with  him  by  the  excel- 
lent marriage  which  she  knew  she  would  one  day 
arrange  for  him.  But  what  difference  was  it  to 
Montperrier  whether  the  girl  was  Claudia  or  some- 
one else?  What  she  had  to  know  was  what  she,  her- 
self— Mme.  de  Fourchamps — wanted  for  herself. 
Puymaufray  attracted  her  by  his  disdain  for  all 
conventional  triumphs;  Harle,  by  his  power  of 
action.  She  would  dominate  Harle,  but  Puymau- 
fray would  be  her  master.  It  was  a  great  risk  for  a 
woman  who  had  never  surrendered  herself.  What 
did  she  know  of  him?  Hadn't  all  her  feminine  art 
fallen  before  his  unshaken  reserve?  Under  his 
tranquil  cordiality  how  invincibly  did  he  resist  every- 
thing that  attracts  men  and  draws  them  on?  Not 
that  he  had  given  up  the  world  entirely!  A  light 


THE  STRONGEST  195 

in  his  eyes,  a  trembling  of  his  voice,  at  times  showed 
the  hidden  flame  of  some  mysterious  passion.  All 
she  had  gained  for  her  efforts  to  enter  into  his  mind 
was  the  irritation  of  knowing  that  it  was  always 
shut  to  her.  Of  what  use  were  her  tenderness,  her 
anger,  her  hate — which  hurt  her  so  much  that  she 
herself  had  asked  whether  it  was  not  love?  Noth- 
ing; of  no  use!  She  had  won  nothing.  In  Poitou 
and  in  Paris,  where  she  had  hoped  to  draw  him  to- 
ward her,  he  had  remained  the  same;  sweetly  im- 
penetrable. Against  what  was  she  fighting?  How 
could  she  fathom  him?  Even  her  indifference  had 
failed  against  his  inscrutable  absorption  with  an 
inner  life.  And  now  it  was  clear  that  she  could 
never  penetrate  his  armour  without  the  help  of 
something  unforeseen,  without  the  decisive  shock 
of  some  surprise.  Harle  did  not  mind  waiting  and 
was  satisfied  with  engaging  smiles.  He  had  decided 
not  to  come  to  terms  until  his  new  enterprise  was  in 
the  full  stream  of  success.  On  his  side  she  could 
gain  time.  But  the  rivalry  of  Deschars  and  Mont- 
perrier  was  certain  to  precipitate  events.  If  she  up- 
held the  claims  of  Montperrier  she  would  alienate 
forever  the  good  graces  of  Puymaufray.  Let  Mont- 
perrier be  hanged,  if  only  Puymaufray  would 

The  countess  had  come  to  that  point  in  her  re- 
flections when  Baron  Oppert  was  announced.  Be- 
sides his  other  virtues,  the  baron  was  a  psychologist. 
Last  night  he  had  been  struck  with  the  countess's 


196  THE  STRONGEST 

insistent  questions  about  Puymaufray  in  a  brief 
talk  they  had  had.  He  had  a  presentiment  of 
"weakness"  unworthy  such  a  beautiful  hand  at  the 
game.  The  idea  of  a  disqualified  man  like  Puy- 
maufray being  admitted  to  rivalry  with  Harle 
seemed  to  Oppert  the  height  of  absurdity.  Besides, 
Mme.  du  Peyrouard  had  given  him,  in  confidence, 
an  account  of  Montperrier's  intentions,  he  had 
promised  his  support,  as  he  had  agreed  with  her  in 
advance.  He  saw  in  the  scheme  advantages  for 
Harle — in  whose  favour  the  Abbe  Nathaniel  had 
gone  to  Rome  with  a  plea  for  a  title — and  for  Mont- 
perrier.  Oppert  was  already  building  on  what 
he  deemed  tantamount  to  the  accomplished  fact. 
Why  should  the  caprices  of  a  woman  break  up 'a 
combination  so  simple  and  so  wise?  He  felt  it  his 
duty  to  the  countess  to  find  out  what  dreams  were 
disturbing  her  usually  clear  and  logical  mind. 

After  gallantly  kissing  her  hand  the  baron  buried 
himself  in  a  cushion  and  began: 

"I  have  noticed,  dear  lady,  that  you  very  seldom 
talk  for  the  pleasure  of  talking.  And  so,  when  I 
left  you  last  night,  I  thought  over  your  preoccupa- 
tion with  the  Marquis  de  Puymaufray  and  won- 
dered whether  the  prospects  of  our  friend  Mont- 
perrier  weren't  being  imperilled  by  him." 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I'm  afraid  they  are,  my  dear 
baron.  I  can't  give  you  details.  M.  Deschars  is 
making  a  stiff  fight  and  the  marquis  isn't  the  man  to 


THE  STRONGEST  197 

be  indifferent  to  his  godchild's  marriage.  He  will 
support  his  candidate  all  the  more  heartily  since  he 
seems  to  dislike  M.  Montperrier.  He  has  influence 
over  Harle.  I  have  often  wondered  what  can  bring 
together  two  men  so  utterly  different." 

"I've  sometimes  asked  Harle  about  his  friend 
with  whom  he's  always  quarrelling.  He  doesn't 
speak  ill  of  him." 

"That's  because  he  isn't  afraid  of  him.  Do  you 
know  anything  about  Mme.  Harle?" 

"I  thought  of  that.  She  was  a  sick  woman  •.  .  > 
Fits  of  black  madness.  Didn't  you  hear  about  it 
down  there?" 

"Hardly.  To  love  a  man  like  Puymaufray, 
Harle  must  feel  himself  bound  by  something;  a 
great  service  done  to  him — or  perhaps  a  great  service 
done  by  him." 

"Am  I  mistaken?  It  seems  to  me  he's  courting 
you." 

"Who?    Harle?" 

"I  wouldn't  need  to  ask.  I'm  talking  about  Puy- 
maufray." 

"What  could  have  put  that  idea  into  your  head?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  thought  so.  He  has  a  certain 
grandeur.  You  might  find  him  very  attractive." 

"I  might;  but  I  don't.  Besides,  if  you  want  my 
opinion,  I  think  he's  devoted  to  Claudia  alone." 

"These  hermits  are  a  desperate  sort  of  creature. 
When  they  have  done  their  duty,  which  is  to  ruin 


198  THE  STRONGEST 

themselves  for  the  profit  of  those  that  work  for  their 
living,  you  never  can  tell  what  they  are  going  to  do 
with  their  uselessness.  This  one  has  become  senti- 
mental and  is  falling  to  pieces  over  it.  It's  incur- 
able. Even  you  couldn't  do  anything.  Harle  is  a 
<different  kind.  He  has  ideas  and  an  intensity  that 
I  really  admire.  We  can  get  along  together.  I  sup- 
pose we  remain  faithful  to  Montperrier,  don't  we?  " 

"I  think  so.    Always." 

"You  are  right.  The  affair  is  equally  advantage- 
ous to  the  captain  of  industry  and  to  the  politician . 
I  say  nothing  of  the  little  doll.  Under  our  direction, 
this  union  of  forces,  skillfully  employed,  can  produce 
a  great  power.  I  sometimes  dream  that  you  will 
add  another  item  to  the  kingdom  of  beauty  and  wit." 

"If  the  world  weren't  upside  down,  baron,  you 
would  be  master  of  France." 

"Perhaps  I  am  more  a  master  than  many  a 
crowned  head,  madame." 

The  countess  understood  her  friend  thoroughly 
and  was  grateful  to  him  for  the  advice  he  gave.  But 
she  had  decided  to  bring  her  uncertainties  to  light 
and  not  to  take  sides  until  she  was  sure  of  her  ground. 
The  baron  saw  everything  financially,  but  there  was 
something  else.  In  order  to  decide  she  had  to  probe 
Puymaufray  and,  without  waiting  for  deeper  causes, 
to  find  out  how  far  he  would  yield  and  how  far  he 
would  refuse.  The  hour  for  diplomacy  had  passed. 
With  an  enemy  that  was  always  on  the  defensive 


THE  STRONGEST  199 

it  was  necessary  to  risk  everything  on  a  frontal 
attack. 

She  saw  him  regularly  at  Harle's.  She  asked  him 
to  come  to  see  her,  and  talked  about  himself,  about 
Claudia,  about  anything  that  might  provoke  him  to 
confidences.  But  all  the  confidences  he  gave  her 
were  either  commonplace  or  false.  Sometimes  she 
would  break  into  a  eulogy  of  Montperrier;  then, 
her  anger  gone,  she  would  calm  him  by  making  him 
understand  that  she  would  sacrifice  all  her  friendships 
in  order  to  please  him. 

The  better  Henri  knew  the  countess,  the  more  he 
feared  her.  He  saw  that  Harle  was  living  from  day 
to  day  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  hers.  He  knew  that 
her  graciously  implacable  will  held  fast  the  man  on 
whom  supreme  happiness  or  unhappiness  depended. 
He  was  far  from  detaching  Claudia;  every  day  he  saw 
the  bond  grow  stronger  between  the  girl  he  loved  and 
the  woman  who  must  steal  his  love  from  him.  Yes, 
Claire's  daughter,  of  the  purest  and  noblest  blood, 
was  yielding  to  the  attraction  of  a  corrupted  soul 
which  tempted  her  with  the  vanity  of  ruling  over  the 
despicable  world. 

Alas!  He  was  again  wearying  Claudia  with  his 
eternal  remonstrances.  But  what  other  part  could 
he  play?  The  better  part  of  his  advantage  in  the 
country  was  being  wasted,  lost,  just  when  the  danger 
grew  most  acute.  Undoubtedly  there  was  Deschars; 
but  Deschars  was  afraid,  and  sensing  danger  on 


200  THE  STRONGEST 

every  side  asked  for  help  instead  of  giving  it.  Only 
Prince  Charming  could  rescue  the  child!  A  simple 
and  direct  man,  of  noble  mind  and  a  tender  heart, 
at  war  with  himself  and  paralyzed  by  love,  fought  at 
a  singular  disadvantage  in  this  perplexing  world 
where  everything  was  against  him.  Montperrier, 
figuring  everything  out,  could  let  himself  be  carried 
along,  because  he  served  both  the  high  and  the  low 
interests  of  the  strongest.  Claudia  herself  remained 
the  best  chance.  But  genius  was  needed  for  her 
deliverance,  while  Puymaufray  and  Deschars  had 
only  love. 

Sheltered  behind  her  perennial  smile  the  countess 
was  watching  her  prey.  The  hour  would  soon  come 
when  she  would  feel  it  trembling  under  her  pink 
claws.  A  passing  quarrel  between  Claudia  and  Henri 
gave  her  the  occasion  she  sought. 

Yielding  to  irresistible  example  Claudia  had  re- 
turned to  her  cosmetics,  and  Puymaufray  was  vexed 
to  see  her  obstinately  ignoring  all  his  prayers. 

"What  pleasure  can  you  find  in  it?"  he  asked. 
"It's  a  lie  which  hasn't  even  the  excuse  of  deceiving 
any  one." 

"Papa  says  I  look  very  well  this  way.  And  be- 
sides, it's  amusing.  When  everybody  agrees  to 
lie  it's  just  the  same  as  if  everybody  were  telling  the 
truth,  because  nobody  is  deceived.  When  I  tell  a 
bore  I'm  glad  to  see  him,  I'm  lying,  too.  What's 
the  difference?  I  get  paid  in  the  same  coin  and  the 


THE  STRONGEST  201 

world  is  much  more  agreeable  than  if  I  were  to  say: 
'You  bore  me,'  or  if  any  one  said  that  to  me." 

"Alas!  You  are  lying  to  yourself,  my  dear  child, 
and  that's  worse.  You  are  false  to  your  youth,  your 
simplicity,  your  grace,  your  truthful  charm.  The  vain 
struggle  against  age  is  not  so  glorious.  But  what  mad- 
ness to  disfigure  your  beauty  in  this  idolatrous  cult 
of  yourself  which  is  the  worst  of  all  perversions." 

"Oh!  So  you  think  I  am  perverse,  Uncle  dear? 
What  about  the  eighteenth  century  that  you  admire 
so  much?  What  about  the  rouge  and  patches  and 
powder  and  paniers  and  a  lot  of  other  things  that 
weren't  exactly  in  the  best  of  taste  and  which  I 
don't  have  to  use?" 

"These  aren't  the  things  for  which  I  love  that 
century.  And  the  end  showed  that  it  had  in  it  the 
germs  of  violent  dissolution." 

"Let  me  hope  that  a  little  white  or  pink  cream 
for  chapped  hands  won't  have  such  terrible  conse- 
quences. Come,  let  me  see  you  smile." 

"No.  I  don't  feel  like  smiling.  Because  you've 
painted  your  little  face  you  can  kiss  me  only  with 
the  tip  of  your  lips.  And  I  can't  give  you  a  hearty 
embrace.  I  dare  you  to  fling  your  arms  round  my 
neck."  Then,  after  a  pause : "  You  see  ? — you  haven't 
even  budged." 

"Because  you're  making  me  angry." 

"The  truth  has  wounded  you,  my  poor  child. 
I  thought  you  loved  me  enough " 


202  THE  STRONGEST 

A  shake  of  the  head,  a  gesture  of  impatience,  cut 
short  these  conversations.  Henri  was  too  often  com- 
pelled to  make  advances  for  a  reconciliation.  The 
child  did  not  yield. 

One  day  when  his  patience  was  exhausted  he  an- 
nounced that  he  no  longer  recognized  his  Claudia 
and  would  wait  until  he  could  find  her  again.  This 
time  there  was  a  real  quarrel  and  the  Comtesse  de 
Fourchamps,  seeing  Henri  helpless,  thought  that  the 
time  had  come  to  unmask  her  batteries. 

The  moment  he  came  she  opened  fire  bravely: 

"I  am  desolate  to  see  you  so  unhappy  under  your 
forced  gaiety,  my  dear  marquis.  My  friendship  is 
very  clairvoyant  and  I  easily  guess  what  you  don't 
tell  me.  If  you  are  displeased  by  my  indiscretion,  I 
will  stop.  However,  I  would  be  really  glad  to  con- 
tribute, if  I  could,  to  easing  your  troubles.  Per- 
haps you  have  always  thought  I  was  your  enemy — 
at  bottom.  I  mean:  disposed  to  oppose  your  ideas 
about  the  happiness  of  those  who  are  dear  to  you. 
I  want  you  to  think  better  of  me.  That's  the  reason 
I  am  taking  the  trouble  of  speaking  to  you  openly." 

Henri  heard  her  out,  silent  with  amazement  at 
seeing  all  the  reserve  and  prudence  end  in  this  out- 
break of  confidence. 

"But  I  am  not  unhappy,  dear  madame,  I  assure 
you,"  he  said  with  an  effort. 

"Ah!  You  oughn't  to  answer  that  way  to  my 
offer  of  friendship — the  most  honest  and  most  dis- 


THE  STRONGEST  203 

interested,  I  swear.  Well,  then,  I  must  stop  there, 
since  you  wish  it.  I  shall  be  sorry,  because  it  seems 
to  me  I  could  have  helped  you." 

"But  I  beg  you  to  speak,  madame,"  said  Henri, 
disconcerted  by  a  vague  ray  of  hope  in  the  darkness. 

"It's  different  if  you  demand  it.  Come,  surely 
you  don't  believe  I  was  the  only  one  who  didn't  see 
your  immense  affection  for  your  exquisite  little  niece. 
You  saw  her  born,  her  father  is  your  most  intimate 
friend,  her  mother  asked  you  to  watch  over  her  when 
she  was  dying.  You  promised.  Claudia  is  the  only 
love  ajid  the  sole  thought  of  one  who  has  paid,  I  fear, 
for  an  excess  of  wild  life  by  an  excess  of  solitude." 

"  You  have  put  it  very  well.  You  are  not  the  only 
one  that  knows." 

"Well.  I  can  only  draw  one  conclusion  from  this 
story,  which  is  altogether  to  your  advantage;  and  I 
am  not  afraid  of  a  denial." 

"Yes?" 

"  In  one  word.  The  supreme  trial  has  come.  The 
marriage  day  is  at  hand.  It's  the  greatest  risk  a 
woman  can  run.  We  have  only  a  choice  of  miseries; 
jealous  tyranny  or  the  insult  of  indifference;  un- 
certainty, polite  or  brutal  desertion;  disillusions; 
weariness  with  a  chain  which  we  must  drag  along; 
despair;  hatred;  and  for  the  climax,  the  temptation 
of  a  secret  revenge.  That  is  the  destiny  to  which  the 
banal  words  of  the  priest  too  often  open  the  doors 
for  us." 


204  THE  STRONGEST 

"  There  is  also  love,"  said  Puymauf  ray  with  a  smile. 

"Yes.  That's  the  bait  with  which  we  are  caught. 
However,  none  of  us  know  what  we  are  doing  on  the 
day  we  marry.  It's  a  mad  party  played  by  the 
blind,  with  unhappiness  as  the  stake.  You  speak  of 
happy  chances.  You  know  how  rare  they  are  and 
that  is  what  makes  you  so  bitterly  anxious  for  the 
child  you  love.  Am  I  right?" 

"Yes." 

"At  last  we  are  agreed.  Of  course  I  guessea  your 
feelings.  "What  follows  is  inevitable.  M.  Harl£ 
is  an  excellent  man,  but  he  is  absorbed  in  his  business, 
and  he  is  satisfied  if  his  child,  whom  he  adores, 
is  enjoying  the  present.  She — well,  she  gathers 
roses  while  she  may.  That's  what  we  all  did  at  her 
age.  And  you're  afraid  of  boring  her  with  your  ser- 
mons, although  she  loves  you  tenderly.  Didn't  it 
ever  occur  to  you  that  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  call 
in  the  aid  of  a  friend?" 

Puymaufray  made  a  gesture  void  of  definite  mean- 
ing. 

"You  remember  that  it  was  I  who  asked  you  to 
come  to  Paris.  I  know  you  would  have  come  of 
your  own  accord  because  Harm's  situation  inevitably 
sacrifices  his  daughter  to  the  calculations  of  our  sad 
world.  You  couldn't  have  allowed  her  to  face  such 
risks  while  you  were  away.  At  any  rate,  I  gave  you 
the  necessary  pretext  for  coming.  Would  I  have 
done  that  had  I  been  opposed  to  you?" 


THE  STRONGEST  205 

"I  never  thought  you  were." 

"I  would  like  to  believe  that.  Be  that  as  it  may 
I  have  spoken  too  frankly  to  stop  now.  I  must  go 
on  to  the  end.  The  candidates  are  showing  them- 
selves. How  often  have  I  been  asked  to  drop  a 
favourable  word!  You'll  guess  without  my  telling 
you.  I  love  the  child  too  well,  and  even  before  I 
knew  you  I  had  too  much  respect  for  those  who  had 
rights  over  her.  In  such  a  serious  business  I  would 
not  risk  a  thoughtless  word.  However,  Claudia  is 
fully  conscious  of  her  awakening  ambitions,  most  of 
which,  to  tell  the  truth,  are  not  of  the  noblest.  Just 
exactly  what  is  she  thinking,  and  what  is  she  feeling? 
She  can't  tell  us  freely  because  it's  too  much  trouble 
to  be  clear  to  herself.  Like  you,  I  am  figuring  on  her 
natural  goodness.  But  what  does  she  know  about 
life? — and  how  could  she  tell  truth  from  falsehood? 
She  has  a  fortune  and  she  is  beautiful.  What  can 
tempt  her?  Social  position?  Perhaps;  or  the  satis- 
faction of  a  personal  sentiment  .  .  .  and  you 
can  figure  the  chances  from  your  own  remark:  There 
is  also  love'." 

"All  this  is  very  well  thought  out,  madame.  But 
what  can  we  do?" 

"Very  little,  to  tell  the  truth.  But  who  knows? 
Perhaps  this  very  little  can  swing  the  balance.  If  it 
comes  at  the  critical  moment  of  which  a  woman  is 
the  best  judge — a  word  may  be  decisive." 

"Dear  lady,"  said  Henri  who  knew  his  danger  all 


206  THE  STRONGEST 

too  well,  "you  are  showing  that  you  are  a  true  friend 
of  my  little  girl.  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  wanting  to 
guide  Claudia  with  your  advice.  Perhaps  the  event 
you  speak  of  is  not  so  close  as  you  think " 

"My  dear  marquis,  you  are  losing  all  your  skill  at 
diplomacy.  I  never  speak  inopportunely.  And 
since  you  appreciate  my  frankness,  I  will  go  on,  to 
gain  merit  in  your  eyes.  The  nobility  of  your  feel- 
ing has  inspired  in  me  the  most  lively  sympathy  from 
the  first  day,  and  let  me  add,  the  sincerest  affection. 
You  know  me  very  little  indeed  if  you  judge  me  by 
the  foolish  gossip  of  Paris.  I  am  a  very  honest  woman, 
and  when  I  give  my  hand  I  do  not  go  back  on  it." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  wide  open,  a  hand  too  long, 
too  white,  worked  over,  composed  like  a  work  of  art, 
sparkling  with  jewels  (unknown  to  her  ancestors, 
and  suggesting  anything  but  honesty) .  Henri  started 
to  kiss  it. 

"No,  no,"  said  the  countess,  turning  her  palm 
upward.  "  We  must  first  shake  hands  on  the  strength 
of  it.  Afterward,  we  shall  see.  Do  we  shake?" 

"Shake,"  said  Puymaufray — with  more  courtesy 
than  enthusiasm. 

"Good.  I  am  done  with  my  speech.  We  are 
friends,  sworn  friends.  You  can  count  on  me.  To- 
gether we  shall  be  able  to  defend  Claudia.  Our 
alliance  gives  me  a  precious  duty.  And  who  knows? 
Later — when  you  get  to  know  me  better;  when  you 
learn  how  much  I,  the  woman  of  the  world,  am  de- 


THE  STRONGEST  207 

tached  from  the  world;  and  when  you  see  how  I  can 
repay  your  confidence  with  the  absolute  loyalty  of 
my  heart " 

She  had  lowered  her  eyes  to  accentuate  the  equi- 
vocation. When  she  raised  them  again  she  could  not 
suppress  a  movement  of  terror  at  the  sight  of  Puy- 
maufray  who  had  just  begun  to  understand.  At 
last  the  light  had  come!  What  then?  Was  it  to 
this  that  the  miserable  creature  was  leading  him? 
Marriage  the  price  of  Claudia's  safety!  She  dared 
to  propose  it  to  him  in  cold  blood.  To  give  himself 
up  as  ransom  for  Claire's  child?  Not  himself  alone, 
but  Claire  with  him — Claire  herself,  living  in  him, 
outraged,  soiled  by  the  odious  contact.  He  had 
heard  the  infamous  words,  and  yet  he  was  there! 
He  had  not  flung  his  contempt  in  her  face! 

A  woman  is  between  us,  thought  the  countess,  trem- 
bling with  rage.  "A  woman  who  hates  me."  Then, 
controlling  herself  with  admirable  poise  she  went  on: 

"Yes,  my  dear  marquis,  later — when  you  know 
me  better,  when  you  have  put  me  to  the  test,  when 
you  are  able  to  judge  how  much  energy  I  can  put  into 
your  service — you  will  remember,  gratefully  I  hope, 
our  conversation  of  to-day." 

"I  shall  not  need  to  wait  until  then,  madame," 
answered  Puymaufray  with  a  breaking  voice. 
"Your  affection  for  my  godchild  is  a  guarantee  that 
you  wish  for  her  happiness,  and  I  dared  to  hope,  even 
before,  that  a  little  of  this  friendship  would  be  ex- 


208  THE  STRONGEST 

tended  to  me.  You  have  assured  me  of  it.  I  give 
you  all  my  gratitude.  I  assure  you  that  it  is  not  lost 
on  me!" 

"I  am  sure  of  it." 

But  when  she  was  alone  she  asked  herself: 

"Then  who  is  between  us?  I  must  have  become 
pretty  stupid  to  let  myself  be  mocked  by  this  pitiable 
dreamer.  After  all,  what's  the  difference?  I  offered 
peace.  He  chose  war.  He  shall  have  war — to  th« 
knife." 

And  Puymaufray,  mad  with  rage,  knew  too  well 
with  what  renewed  ardour  his  enemies  would  press 
upon  him.  He  felt  a  savage  fury  rise  in  him  against 
all  who  stood  between  him  and  Claudia,  and  swore 
that  he  would  spare  nothing,  even  if  he  had  to  give 
his  life  for  the  child. 


CHAPTER  XI 

UNDER  the  direction  of  Etienne  Montperrier 
— aided  by  Deschars,  by  the  painter,  Wilfrid 
Leigh,  and  the  amateur  artist,  Alphonse 
de  Valvois — the  tableaux  vivants  were  hastily  or- 
ganized. There  was  some  difficulty  about  assign- 
ing the  parts.  Wilfrid  Leigh  had  created  a  Queen 
of  Sheba  that  was  very  Parisian,  and  the  rough  sketch 
was  loudly  acclaimed.  It  was  universally  recog- 
nized that  the  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps  was  the  only 
woman  who  had  sufficient  authority  to  create  the 
part.  Montperrier  easily  persuaded  her  to  take  it, 
and,  when  his  sister  asked  for  the  part  of  a  lady  in 
waiting  whose  simplicity  would  enhance  the  splendour 
of  the  Oriental  queen,  he  yielded  cheerfully.  For 
the  rest,  Montperrier  diplomatically  solved  the  prob- 
lem of  roles  by  agreeing  to  every  request.  They 
needed  a  Solomon  and  the  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps 
proposed  the  Prince  de  Luques. 

"With  a  curly  wig,  a  black  beard,  a  crown,  and 
sceptre,  the  prince  will  give  us  a  perfect  picture  of 
royalty,"  she  said. 

The  prince  needed  all  these  trappings  because  nis 
long,  shaking  body,  his  patchy  skull,  his  small,  meanly 


210  THE  STRONGEST 

vicious  eyes  would  more  naturally  recall  Scaramouche 
in  his  grave  than  Solomon  in  all  his  glory.  However, 
it  was  agreed  that  the  idea  was  admirable  and  that 
the  prince  would  cause  a  sensation. 

"M.  Montperrier,"  continued  the  countess,  "it 
is  up  to  you  to  make  the  prince  accept."  She  did 
not  tell  him  that  she  had  already  arranged  the  matter 
with  De  Luques. 

In  contrast  with  Montperrier,  Deschars  succeeded 
in  pleasing  nobody.  It  must  be  said  that  the  coun- 
tess led  the  opposition. 

While  Deschars  was  briefly  explaining  the  legend, 
and  trying  groupings  on  the  ramparts  of  the  castle, 
the  countess  interrupted  with: 

"Tell  me,  Monsieur  Deschars,  about  your  prince 
who  became  a  monk.  Did  he  change  the  world  as 
he  set  out  to?" 

"Yes,  madame.  He  converted  the  hearts  of  many 
hundred  millions  of  men.  Or  rather  he  brought  into 
action  their  natural  goodness  which  had  been  sup- 
pressed under  a  weight  of  selfishness." 

"What  is  that  in  comparison  with  Him  who  gave 
His  blood  to  save  all  mankind?" 

"In  his  hatred  of  suffering,  Buddha's  pity  went  as 
far  as  the  beasts.  He  offered  his  body  to  the  tigress, 
so  that  the  cubs  might  not  be  hungry." 

"He  was  mad." 

"Yes;  as  are  all  of  us  who  go  beyond  the  usual 
limits." 


THE  STRONGEST  211 

"Do  you  know  that  you  are  talking  like  a  pagan? 
In  other  times  you'd  be  burned  alive.  To-day  your 
immorality  will  close  the  doors  of  society  upon  you." 

"I  didn't  think  I  was  being  immoral,  and  from 
what  I've  seen  I  shouldn't  say  that  the  world  was  so 
strict." 

"We  don't  kill  newborn  babes,  like  the  Chinese/* 

"Strange.  I  heard  the  opposite  in  the  criminal 
court  the  other  day." 

"We  aren't  polygamists." 

"I  should  hardly  have  guessed  that  from  seeing  the 
walking  harems  along  the  boulevards." 

"We  are  charitable." 

"The  rich  are  hardly  drained  by  their  charity/' 

"And  what  are  we  doing  now,  I  ask  you?  Is  this 
the  time  to  scandalize  us  with  your  impiety?  It's 
a  charitable  f£te.  We  answer  you  simply  by  helping 
others  and  by  making  you  do  the  same.  Don't 
you  see  that  Mile.  Harle  is  waiting  for  you  to  tell  her 
about  your  dirty  Buddha — on  whom  I'd  close  my 
doors  if  it  weren't  for  the  dancing  girls/' 

"You  will  bear  witness,  mademoiselle,  that  all 
I'm  trying  to  do  is  to  make  the  court  pleasing  to  you/' 

"Yes,"  answered  Claudia,  "that  is  the  most  im- 
portant part,  and  we're  nearly  agreed  on  it.  Lucienne 
Preban  tells  me  she'll  accept  the  part  of  Buddha. 
She'll  be  in  to-morrow.  You'll  get  the  instructions 
ready  for  her,  won't  you?  As  for  me,  I  must  be 
Gopa,  the  wife  of  the  Prince.  What  about  her?" 


THE  STRONGEST 

"She  was  the  most  beautiful  of  women,  and  by  a 
miracle,  the  best  of  women,  too." 

"You  mean  that  the  combination  hasn't  been  seen 
since?" 

"On  the  contrary,  I  note  the  coincidence." 

"Splendid.    And  what  does  Gopa  need?" 

"According  to  the  story,  her  father-in-law  gave 
her  'two  pieces  of  white  cloth  strewn  with  precious 
stones,  a  collar  of  pearls,  and  a  golden  garland  en- 
crusted with  real  pearls.' ' 

"Oh,  what  a  costume!  The  countess  will  lend  me 
her  pearls.  And  what  did  the  Prince  give  her?" 

"A  robe  with  sheets  of  gold." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"I'm  not  sure.  The  rarest  of  his  gifts  was  un- 
undoubtedly  the  spectacle  of  his  supreme  wisdom." 

"Which  he  proved  by  leaving  her  to  beg  along  the 
roads." 

"That  prince  is  certainly  not  a  good  example," 
put  in  Mme.  du  Peyrouard. 

"My  dear  Deschars,"  criticized  Montperrier. 
"Your  designs,  which  are  charming,  have  one  fault. 
You  have  the  Prince  down  stage  with  the  crowd  as 
the  background.  I  suggest  that  you  give  more  im- 
portance to  the  Court.  The  Prince  is  such  a  model 
of  virtue  that  he  ought  to  be  modest,  too.  We'll 
run  the  chariot  down  to  the  entrance  of  the  stage 
as  not  to  be  embarrassed  by  the  horses.  The  driver 
is  waiting  for  the  signal  to  go.  The  Prince  turns 


THE  STRONGEST  213 

for  the  final  gesture  of  farewell  to  his  wife.  The 
whole  audience  will  follow  his  look." 

"Really,  it  will  be  better  that  way"  said  Claudia. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  what  an  artist  would  suggest,"  said 
Montperrier,  modestly.  "But  when  the  actors  and 
the  spectators  are  society  folk  you  have  to  consult 
the  convenience  of  the  eye." 

"How  do  you  manage  to  think  of  everything?" 
asked  the  countess. 

"As  for  the  Temptation,  your  sketch  is  perfect," 
continued  Montperrier,  who  wanted  to  make  a  show 
of  being  generous.  "Only  Buddha,  seen  in  profile, 
must  be  dressed  all  in  gold  under  his  palm  tree.  Of 
course  gold  isn't  in  the  book,  but  the  effect  will  be 
better.  I  suppose  Mile.  Lucienne  Preban  will  play 
Buddha  straight  through.  All  gold,  but  very  simple, 
and  with  a  lotus  flower  in  her  hand.  For  the  rest, 
an  orgy  of  dancing  girls  with  flowers,  Mile.  Harle  in 
the  foreground.  We'll  develop  the  figures  as  we  go 
along." 

The  countess  and  Mme.  du  Peyrouard  were  de- 
ciding whom  to  invite,  discussing  the  latest  indecen- 
cies of  the  stage  and  the  newest  follies  of  society, 
when  Claudia  came  up  to  them. 

"I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  invite  Joseph  Carls- 
berg,"  she  said. 

"I  should  think  so,"  answered  the  countess. 
"He'll  give  us  all  sorts  of  notices  in  the  press.  Be- 
sides, he's  a  protege  of  the  baron." 


214  THE  STRONGEST 

"He's  not  any  too  decorative." 

"What's  the  difference?  He's  a  fine  worker  in  a 
good  cause." 

"Mile.  Claudia,  we  need  you  for  the  Temptation 
scene,"  cried  Montperrier. 

Claudia  ran  off  and  presently  they  heard  a  grave 
discussion  on  the  poses  of  the  dancing  girls. 

"We  must  be  careful  not  to  have  Carlsberg  against 
us,"  said  the  countess. 

"I  should  say  so.  He's  one  of  the  most  powerful 
people." 

"Yes.  We  mustn't  lose  sight  of  him.  Why,  look 
here,  you're  only  allowing  ten  cards  to  Mme.  de 
Plomeur.  If  she  brings  her  whole  court " 

"All  her  friends  have  remained  faithful  to  her. 
That's  the  finest  thing  you  can  say  for  a  woman  of 
sixty." 

"Do  you  remember  the  amusing  trick  that  mon- 
ster Beauval  played  on  her?" 

"What  was  it?" 

"Well,  he  undertook  to  persuade  her  that  he  had 
had  the  honour  of  being  one  of  her  passions  long  ago. 
His  memory  seemed  frightfully  precise." 

"Oh,  yes.  And  then — after  she  had  denied  and 
denied — she  ended  by  saying:  'Well,  if  you're 
sure '" 

"Napoleon  didn't  remember  the  names  of  all 
his  battles.  But  he  was  an  emperor  all  the  same, 
just  as  Mme.  de  Plomeur  was  the  glory  of  Paris." 


THE  STRONGEST  215 

"We  mustn't  forget  Mme.  de  Brion." 

A  discussion  in  the  next  room  cut  short  the  conver- 
sation. The  temptresses  of  Buddha  all  wanted 
first  honours.  Montperrier  suggested  that  Claudia 
be  alone  in  the  foreground,  but  showing  only  her 
profile.  Deschars  wanted  her  full  face,  more  in  the 
middle  distance,  dominating  the  whole  scene.  Clau- 
dia inclined  toward  the  latter,  but  the  countess 
asserted  that  the  pose  lacked  character,  so  Mont- 
perrier's  opinion  was  upheld. 

"I  think,"  said  Montperrier,  "that  the  Aged  and 
Incorrigible  will  be  satisfied  with  us,  madame." 

The  remark  was  apropos  and  the  countess  was 
grateful  to  the  young  politician  for  recalling  the 
purpose,  momentarily  forgotten,  of  all  these  praise- 
worthy efforts. 

When  the  time  came  to  make  the  poses  definite, 
Montperrier  said  that  Deschars's  designs  had  to  be 
transposed  into  the  Parisian  mode  by  a  specialist. 
Signora  Farnini,  one-time  star  of  the  Scala,  was 
chosen  and  took  up  her  work.  She  was  a  heavy, 
matronly  body  with  an  obliging  smile,  who  devoted 
herself  to  Deschars  and  kept  him  endlessly  busy. 
Montperrier  was  liberated  and  became  the  most 
devoted  of  Claudia's  collaborators.  All  of  this  was 
in  a  bustle  of  people  discussing  costumes  and  poses, 
asking  questions  and  cutting  the  answers  short  by 
incongruous  counter  questions,  laughing,  joking,  flirt- 
ing, telling  scandalous  tales,  helping  the  Aged 


216  THE  STRONGEST 

Incorrigibles.  Chief  among  them  were:  Lucienne 
Preban,  jealously  guarded  by  her  Levantine,  Count 
Spiridion  Levidi;  the!  beautiful  Lady  Ha  ward; 
Mme  d'Arrois;  the  Prince  de  Luques,  of  whom  every- 
body asked  the  truth  concerning  Melanie;  the  Mar- 
quis de  Bernot,  who  was  only  waiting  for  Mont- 
perrier  to  be  put  in  his  place,  so  that  he  might  offer 
Harle  his  marquisate;  and  Dumouzin,  with  his  eye 
ever  watchful.  There  was,  besides,  a  rout  of  young 
people,  grateful  to  the  Aged  Incorrigibles  for  the 
chance  to  live  the  Marriage  at  Cana,  after  Veronese. 

Claudia's  education  was  being  rapidly  completed 
in  this  environment.  For  her  it  was  the  world — the 
world  realized  in  a  happy  hum  of  living — and  her 
godfather  was  only  the  dream  of  a  dead  happiness. 

Henri  came,  or  rather  let  himself  be  brought,  to 
the  rehearsals  by  a  sense  of  futile  duty.  He  found 
himself  out  of  place,  in  the  way,  and  remained 
dreamily  waiting  for  something  to  happen  which  did 
not  happen.  Claudia  was  surrounded,  adored, 
courted  on  every  hand,  saw  welcome  in  every  pair 
of  eyes.  She  was  proud  of  her  triple  power — wealth, 
beauty,  and  youth — and  found  that  everything  that 
ruled  the  world  was  at  her  service.  She  found  herself 
forgetful  of  Henri's  uneasiness,  and  could  not  bear 
the  weight  of  his  affection — the  only  obstacle  to  her 
happiness. 

What  an  irony  to  recall  to  her,  now,  the  humble 
friends  she  had  at  Ste.  Radegonde,  those  simple  creat- 


THE  STRONGEST  217 

ures,  uncouth  but  gentle,  whom  she  helped  for  the 
pure  joy  of  making  them  happy  for  a  day.  How 
far  away  it  all  was  now!  How  much  had  happened 
in  a  few  weeks!  A  world  had  ended  for  her! 

The  Prince  de  Luques  was  not  making  things 
easier  for  Puymaufray.  He  had  had  many  good 
times  with  the  marquis,  for  they  had  been  ruined  to- 
gether and  the  prince  was  happy  to  go  into  reminis- 
cences because  they  helped  him  to  diminish  the 
"superiority"  of  his  friend.  Claudia  was  vastly 
amused,  and  Puymaufray  was  bitterly  offended  by 
her  amusement. 

"Do  you  know  who  came  in  to  see  me  this  morn- 
ing?" De  Luques  would  say.  "Moses  Bernard; 
used  to  be  head  of  the  claque  at  the  Gymnase.  No, 
he  isn't  dead.  It's  incredible.  He's  still  doing  a 
little  money-lending,  just  to  have  something  to  do, 
because  he's  rich.  Oh,  I  can  just  see  him  again,  sell- 
ing and  buying,  diamonds  or  titles,  with  those  women. 
That  was  the  beginning  of  a  great  art.  It's  been 
perfected  since.  I'd  like  to  paint  for  you,  dear 
countess,  the  despair  of  our  friend  the  marquis. 
He  was  crazy  about  Valentine  Michou  of  the  Gym- 
nase in  those  days.  One  day  when  he  was  standing 
behind  a  prop  of  some  sort  he  heard  Valentine  pass 
a  few  words  with  Bernard,  some  strange  confidences 
about  their  business.  Valentine  was  the  incarnation 
of  the  dreams  of  our  youth  in  those  days.  She  had 
confided  her  savings — which  were  in  part  the  heritage 


218  THE  STRONGEST 

of  our  friend — to  Bernard  who  was  lending  them  to 
Henri.  So  you  see  he  was  lending  his  own  money  to 
himself,  at  a  good  rate  of  interest.  Only  who  would 
have  believed  it?  Moses  was  robbing  his  client. 
It  was  a  mistake,  because  Valentine  could  always 
check  him  up  through  some  confession  made  in  the 
madness  of  love.  Hence  the  quarrel  which  surprised 
the  marquis,  while  Valentine  waited  for  her  cue  to  go 
on  for  her  big  scene.  The  poor  lover  was  sad  for  a 
whole  month.  He  was  a  fine  sou  leven  then.  Now, 
tell  me,  have  I  told  anything  but  the  truth?  " 

Puymaufray  shrugged  his  shoulders,  laughing  with 
bad  grace  while  Claudia  and  the  countess  tried  very 
hard  to  suppress  their  laughter.  De  Luques  con- 
tinued with  another  story.  Even  when  Henri  had 
left  and  the  countess  reproached  the  prince,  he  did 
not  stop,  but  proved  his  point  with  still  another  gay 
tale. 

"You  don't  even  try  to  prevent  Claudia  from 
hearing  these  things  about  her  godfather,"  protested 
the  countess,  holding  Claudia  close  to  her. 

"Ah,  it's  time  I  was  warned.  Happily,  Mile. 
Harle"  is  not  a  provincial.  She  had  better  learn  to 
know  her  Paris,  because  she's  going  to  be  its  queen 
some  day." 

"And  is  all  you've  been  telling  us  really  Paris?" 
asked  Claudia,  maliciously. 

"We  are  Paris." 

"Plus  something  else,  surely,"  retorted  the  girl. 


THE  STRONGEST  219 

"Hardly."  (The  prince  was  contemptuous.) 
"Oh,  yes,  writers  and  artists  and  working  people  and 
I  don't  know  what  else — people  who  work  for  our 
pleasure  and  count  only  by  the  success  we  bring 
them.  Society  flourishes  in  us,  and  what  people 
call  'corruptions'  are  only  the  necessary  .  .  . 
fertilizer  for  any  flowering.  I  ruined  myself  mag- 
nificently for  the  profit  of  Paris.  In  a  way  we  are 
doing  the  same  thing  now  for  the  Aged " 

"How  can  you  compare  the  two?"  asked  the  coun- 
tess. 

"Oh,  you  know  it's  the  same  thing.  We  needn't 
play  with  words.  Our  function  is  to  enjoy;  our  art 
is  to  utilize  our  enjoyment." 

"You  are  a  cynic,  prince." 

"And  you  a  lovely  hypocrite,  countess.  But  I 
will  not  abuse  my  advantage.  Let  us  get  on  with 
our  work.' 

It  was  at  "work"  that  Claudia  and  Montperrier 
began  to  exchange  ideas.  A  remark  of  Lucienne 
Preban's,  always  preoccupied  with  tlie  thought  oi  her 
millions,  started  them. 

"Why  shouldn't  two  people  dream  of  developing 
their  ambitions  together?"  asked  Montperrier. 

"  Together?  Does  it  often  happen  that  a  man  and 
a  woman  have  the  same  ambition?" 

"  It  can  happen.  The  man  will  dream  of  a  growing 
power.  The  woman  of  increasing  adulation.  And 
they  will  unite,  to  realize  their  dream  in  common. 


220  THE  STRONGEST 

Imagine  a  young  girl,  very  beautiful  and  very  rich 
— like  you." 

"I  imagine  that." 

"  Imagine,  on  the  other  hand,  a  man  who  has 
the  great  chance  to  become ' 

"Like  you?" 

"Like  me.  Good.  What  could  be  more  legiti- 
mate, more  reasonable,  than  to  base  the  hope  of 
permanent  agreement  on  this  foundation  of  similar 
interests?  It  does  not  even  exclude  poetry." 

"Reasonable  and  poetic?" 

"  'All  I  can  get  '—that's  my  motto/ 

"It's  very  good.  But  it  doesn't  say  how  these 
similar  interests  are  to  be  divided." 

"That's  to  be  decided  in  advance." 

"Then  suppose  we  decide,  since  we  are  the  ex- 
amples chosen.  You  will  derive  a  certain  advantage 
in  the  way  of  your  tailor's  accounts.  How  shall 
I  be  repaid?" 

"By  our  common  advantage  in  the  excess  of  our 
power.  Your  pride  can  take  the  lion's  share  of  it." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"I'm  sorry.  I  can't  offer  you  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  to  rule  over." 

"Your  modesty  pleases  me.  The  heavens  will 
get  along  without  our  aid.  So  will  the  world,  if  need 
be.  You  prefer  not?  Well,  then,  assume  that  we're 
kings  of  the  earth,  or  what  you  call  the  earth.  That 
ought  to  be  amusing  the  first  day  and  even  the  second. 


THE  STRONGEST 

But  the  tenth?  And  the  hundredth?  And  for- 
ever?" 

"The  mind  refreshes  its  pleasures." 

"Does  it?  I'm  not  even  a  princess  yet  and  I'm 
wearied  with  ennui  already." 

"If  you  can't  change  yourself  you  must  change 
others." 

"Yes.  So  you  will  change  me  and  I  will  change 
you!  How  tiresome." 

"You're  forgetting  the  poetry." 

"How  amusing  it  is — you're  afraid  to  say  'love'." 

"Everybody  drags  in  the  word." 

"It's  beautiful  all  the  same." 

"That's  why  the  innocent  suffer  from  it." 

"You  aren't  one  of  them,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  we  all  try  to  escape  suffering." 

"Then  how  does  it  happen  that,  in  spite  of  all  the 
unhappiness  announced  in  advance,  so  many  men 
ind  women  give  all  for  love?  I  don't  fool  myself. 
There  are  times  when  I  envy  them." 

"Look  at  them  when  they  return.  See  their  ex- 
piation for  the  exaltation  of  a  day.  Disillusioned 
creatures,  weeping  because  they  staked  their  lives 
on  one  card;  reproaches,  hatred,  bloodshed,  what 
else?  And  then  look  at  the  peace  of  those  who  re- 
strained this  ephemeral  passion  and  put  it  in  its 
place.  Have  you  seen  any  more  permanent  pleas- 
ures than  those  that  come  from  society?" 

"I  don't  know.    I've  been  taught  differently." 


222  THE  STRONGEST 

"Your  godfather!  His  happiness  seems  sad 
enough.  The  Comtesse  de  Fourehamps  who  knows 
life " 

"Are  you  setting  her  up  as  an  example?" 

"  She's  a  very  superior  woman.  She  will  tell  you 
that  poetry  lasts  an  hour  and  marriage  forever. 
That  is  why  the  union  of  interests  must  be  estab- 
lished first." 

"So  the  baron  tells  us." 

"He's  a  man.    You  can  trust  him." 

"He  told  us  that  from  the  shelter  of  marriage  we 
can  watch  for  any  passing  bit  of  poetry." 

"It  seems  rather  bold  for  you  to  repeat  it." 

"Isn't  it  proof  of  my  esteem  that  I  dare  to  bring 
you  face  to  face  with  the  truth?" 

"Perhaps.  You  must  confess  that  it  isn't  usual 
for  people  to  talk  as  we've  been  talking." 

"Yes.  It's  usual  to  conform  to  the  rules  of  the 
world  and  then  lie  to  one's  self  and  to  others,  with 
pompous  words." 

"On  the  contrary.     At  our  age  it  is  not  lying." 

"It  is  time  for  youth  to  learn  by  the  experience  of 
age.  I  am  as  capable  of  love  as  the  verse-makers, 
perhaps  more  so.  But  I'd  be  ashamed  to  talk  to  a 
woman  chosen  for  my  companion  about  her  beauty 
and  nothing  else." 

"It's  a  pity!  Everything  contradicts  what  I  have 
learned.  Everything  leads  me  to  new  risks.  And 
even  now  I  sometimes  get  a  feeling  of  disgust." 


THE  STRONGEST  223 

"Does  it  require  so  much  courage  to  live  in  your 
own  time?" 

On  that  the  discussion  broke  up,  for  Lucienne  and 
Deschars  came  up  to  settle  a  dispute.  They  brought 
with  them  Count  Levidi,  who  was  to  play  the  Gali- 
lean. Puymaufray  could  not  suppress  a  smile. 

"Poor  Crucified  one,"  he  thought.  " To  have  had 
the  glory  of  being  defeated  in  the  name  of  pity  and  to 
win,  in  time,  this  revenge:  that  the  strongest  whom 
You  wished  to  drag  down  use  You  as  an  instrument 
of  oppressing  the  poor  that  You  wished  to  save! 
How  can  Claudia  be  blind  to  this  falsification  of 
words  and  things?  I  see  the  evil  of  my  time  but  can 
do  nothing  to  realize  the  good.  What  can  I  offer  this 
child?  The  example  of  my  defeat,  which  undeserved 
luck  turned  into  victory  ?  I  cannot  tell  of  the  victory. 
Everywhere  lurks  the  danger  of  opposing  the  world ! 
Everywhere  the  temptation  to  surrender — as  Mont- 
perrier  must  have  shown  her  just  now.  What  were 
they  talking  about?  They  seemed  serious  and 
Claudia's  face  promised  little  good.  Every  day  I 
know  she  is  slipping  from  me.  If  Deschars  loved  her 
less  he  might  save  her.  He  is  afraid — as  I  am." 

When  they  met  at  night  Henri  and  Deschars  tried 
to  console  each  other.  But  the  letters  Henri  wrote 
to  Nanette  were  unhappy,  and  he  was  not  surprised 
to  find  a  note  from  her,  one  day,  announcing  that,  as 
she  tired  of  receiving  letters  that  told  nothing,  she 
would  come  to  Paris  herself. 


CHAPTER  XH 

PUYMAUFRAY  was  justified  in  criticizing 
Maurice.  The  generation  that  followed  the 
war  of  1870  was  a  generation  of  observers. 
Discouraged  from  action  by  the  defeat  of  their  elders," 
our  young  men  devoted  themselves  to  contemplation. 
They  wrote,  sang;  some  of  them  even  thought.  But 
the  mainspring  of  their  will  never  was  wound  up  to 
the  striking  point,  because  it  lacked  a  sufficient  con- 
centration of  energy.  Those  that  presumptuously 
assumed  the  power  to  act  had  neither  foresight  nor 
method,  and  only  added  to  the  confusion. 

Deschars  was  of  his  generation.  He  had  travelled 
over  the  world  merely  to  see,  and  had  brought  back 
no  urgent  need  of  high  activity.  In  that  respect 
Montperrier  seemed  to  have  an  advantage  over  him 
for  he  had  chosen  to  take  part  in  something  which, 
for  good  or  ill,  useful  or  not,  was  concerned  with  the 
supposed  evolution  of  the  future.  If  Deschars  had 
had  a  great  human  object  in  view  he  could  perhaps 
have  carried  off  Claudia  without  argument.  But, 
as  he  had  told  Puymaufray,  he  aimed  at  nothing  be- 
yond a  life  of  moderate  happiness,  which  he  would 
joyfully  make  of  service  to  the  world,  without  ever 

224 


THE  STRONGEST  225 

risking  the  sudden  turns  of  fortune  in  the  melee  of 
life.  It  was  exactly  what  Puymaufray  had  done,  so 
he  could  not  be  critical.  But  Puymaufray  had  found 
his  dream,  and  was  still  dazzled  because  he  had  lived 
it.  It  was  an  incredible  stroke  of  Fortune,  which  was 
denied  to  Deschars. 

However,  Claudia  could  experience  the  attraction 
of  a  life  above  the  ordinary  spectacle  of  the  world. 
She  said  things  to  Montperrier,  she  mocked  her- 
tfelf,  unconsciously  irritated  because  she  was  not 
yet  subdued.  But  the  man  who  really  loved  her 
could  still  summon  her  to  hazardous  heights  from 
which  to  pass  judgment  on  the  swarming  life 
below. 

But  without  the  imperious  invasion  of  love,  dis- 
couraged by  social  conventions,  the  discussions  of 
Deschars  and  Puymaufray  were  powerless  to  detach 
the  girl  from  the  interests  of  her  class.  Lacking 
everything  else,  these  interests  were  at  least  a  setting 
for  her  life.  She  felt  the  expediency  of  these  things, 
was  angry  at  them,  and  at  times  asked  herself 
whether  it  wouldn't  be  best  to  accept  Montperrier 
"for  the  world"  and  so  assure  for  herself  universal 
approval  in  the  development  of  her  free  personality. 
The  countess  had  done  as  much  and  it  was  an  ex- 
ponent of  "reasonable"  views  who  had  held  her  up 
as  an  example. 

"And  I,  too,  am  beautiful,"  thought  Claudia. 

Then,  as  if  impelled  by  a  sudden  decision,  she  set 


226  THE  STRONGEST 

herself  before  the  mirror.  She  studied  herself  in  de- 
tail, gave  herself  a  generous  but  strict  examination, 
reckoning  up  the  weak  points  and  the  advantages 
she  could  show. 

Her  waist  was  free  and  graceful,  and  artistically 
disposed.  She  could  show  it  to  advantage  even  in 
natural  attitudes.  The  way  she  did  her  hair — a 
striking  contrast  with  the  bright  youthf ulness  of  her 
expression — might  have  been  shocking,  as  Puymau- 
fray  said.  But  that  was  the  style,  and  one  had  to 
yield  to  the  passing  whims  of  style  as  to  other  con- 
ventional laws.  She  approved  of  her  small,  wilful 
chin  and  her  brave  little  mocking  nose.  She  seemed 
to  take  great  satisfaction  in  the  expressive  play  of  her 
nostrils.  Her  mouth  was  small,  the  lips  perhaps  just 
a  little  too  thin.  The  rouge-stick  was  a  useful  aid; 
the  more  indispensable  since  flaming  henna  put  na- 
ture's colour  in  the  shade. 

"  The  great  fault  women  have  is  making]their  lips  too 
red,"  the  countess  used  to  say.  "Then  they  have  to 
overwork  the  pencil  on  their  eyelashes." 

"Nothing  in  excess,"  said  the  Greek  oracle.  It 
was  enough  to  heighten  the  colour,  remembering 
always  that  the  eyes  must  dominate  everything. 
Claudia's  eyes,  always  changing,  with  golden  lights 
in  depths  of  green,  were  the  surest  shaft  in  her  ar- 
mour. She  examined  them  with  a  fresh  curiosity 
eVery  time,  questioned  them,  wondered  whence  their 
power  came;  and,  finding  no  answer,  was  uneasy — as 


THE  STRONGEST  227 

a  fowler  might  be  with  a  net  in  which  he  himself 
might  be  caught. 

"What  magic" — she  thought — "in  a  drop  of 
water,  which  a  ray  of  light  strikes  into  rainbow  col- 
ours! ^What  do  we  think  we  can  see  there?  It  at- 
tracts hearts — irresistibly;  holds  them,  intoxicates 
them  with  promises,  maddens  them  with  hope,  de- 
livers them  over  to  ineffable  joys  and  to  unutterable 
sorrows!  It  is  a  mystery.  And  can  the  thing  we 
think  we  see  ever  be  realized?  Or  is  it  only  an  illu- 
sion? I  shall  know — after  the  test;  too  late,  per- 
haps. No  matter.  Happy  or  unhappy,  I  have  the 
magic  talisman  that  conquers  men.  I  can  use  it  or 
abuse  it,  as  I  please.  Abuse  it,  above  all!  Tre- 
mendous joy!" 

For  whom  or  against  whom?  They  were  questions 
without  answers.  Montperrier? — a  good  invest- 
ment or  a  bad  one;  no  one  could  tell.  Deschars? — 
a  generous  madness,  which  always  has  tempted 
humanity,  and  comes  to  grief  in  the  end.  What  he 
wanted  was  the  last  word  from  those  eyes,  the  last 
word  which  Claudia  herself  demanded  in  vain.  With 
him  life  would  end  in  a  quiet,  monotonous  happiness, 
while  Montperrier  opened  a  career  of  infinite  joys, 
chaotic  perhaps,  but  at  least  intense  in  their  time. 
The  moment  was  coming  when  she  would  have  to 
choose.  Until  now  she  had  had  no  greater  perplexity 
than  the  development  of  the  power  of  her  magic  eyes 
by  vain  tricks.  What  was  there  left  to  think  of? 


228  THE  STRONGEST 

People  said  that  morphine  put  the  flaming  tiger  in 
your  eyes  and  besides  made  you  dream  the  endless 
dreams  which  made  earth  a  paradise.  .  .  ? 

Alas!  She  had  not  looked  deep  enough!  Under 
the  false  high  lights  of  the  make-up  she  had  not  seen 
her  youth,  her  simple  and  lovely  youth,  trying  to 
fight  its  way  out,  disfigured  by  the  mask  of  falsehood; 
youth,  which  would  have  granted  her  that  last  word, 
sought  in  vain  from  laborious  appearances;  youth, 
which  out  of  its  mistakes  makes  a  virtue  of  naivete; 
youth,  which  abandons  itself  to  life  without  calcu- 
lation, which,,  while  it  waits  for  the  hour  when  it  must 
pay  for  its  errors,  knows  the  intensest  joy  of  living 
in  the  sheer  sincerity  of  life. 

Far  from  such  thoughts  Claudia  finished  the  gen- 
eral inspection  of  her  person  by  a  meticulous  observa- 
tion of  her  hands,  still  youthfully  large,  which  an 
artist  was  refining  every  day.  "The  hand  tells 
everything,"  the  countess  had  said,  and  indeed  her 
own  long,  perfidious  ones,  coming  down  to  her  rosy 
finger-tips,  told  much.  She  had  taught  Claudia  an 
instructive  and  amusing  game  to  play  at  dinner 
parties.  You  glance  around  the  table  at  all  the 
hands  and  pass  judgment  on  their  owners.  Then, 
and  only  then,  you  verify  by  looking  at  their  faces. 
She  said  that  they  were  the  surest  psychological 
indexes:  a  connoisseur  of  women  always  begins  with 
the  hands  and  finishes  with  the  ears,  where  secret 
vulgarities  are  revealed. 


THE  STRONGEST  229 

One  thing  was  forgotten  in  this  review:  the  spirit, 
which  ought  to  reveal  and  embellish  everything  else. 
Where  could  she  find  the  mirror  of  her  conscience 
except  in  the  saddened  eyes  of  her  godfather  against 
whom  she  was  defending  herself.  And  to  whom 
could  she  entrust  herself?  To  the  Comtesse  de  Four- 
champs?  Even  to  Claudia's  eyes  her  art  of  pre- 
tending conveyed  every  impression  except  that  of 
truth. 

And  it  was  to  falsehood  that  she  would  sacrifice 
her  pursuit  of  the  true  happiness  which  her  uncle — 
who  loved  her  and  suffered  for  her — wanted.  The 
thought  persisted;  and  the  fear  of  finding  deep  within 
her  the  same  reproachful  glance  which  had  brooded 
over  her  since  her  childhood  compelled  her  to  escape. 

The  thought  of  Deschars  also  possessed  her.  Memo- 
ries and  obscure  hopes  attached  her  to  this  child- 
hood friend — and  esteem  for  the  proud  timidity  of 
the  man  who  had  concentrated  all  his  power,  con- 
fronted all  dangers,  yet  never  spoke  of  them;  a  striking 
contrast  to  the  superficial  Montperrier  who  always 
made  his  worth  known.  But  she  felt  a  dull  irritation 
with  him,  with  herself,  wounded  by  the  disaccord 
with  the  world  which  seemed  to  have  the  highest 
formula  of  life  and  from  which  she  would  not  consent 
to  be  separated. 

Maurice  had  definitely  noticed  that  in  the  last  re- 
hearsals Claudia  and  Montperrier  did  not  always 
discuss  The  Marriage  at  Cana.  Various  signs  warned 


230  THE  STRONGEST 

him  that  serious  things  were  being  said:  Claudia's 
grave  face,  the  intense  look  of  her  partner.  There 
could  be  but  one  subject  that  could  inspire  such 
attitudes,  as  of  forces  gathered  to  attack  or  defend; 
these  silences,  these  words  without  gestures,  the  ex- 
pression of  solemnity  on  the  brink  of  the  inevitable. 

Deschars  was  in  love.  He  was  enslaved  by  the 
sovereign  charm  that  draws  a  man  to  a  woman.  The 
man  is  sometimes  weak  because  he  loves;  the  woman, 
strong,  knowing  nothing  of  love.  He  had  set  his 
dream  on  the  unconscious  soul  of  a  girl  of  twenty 
and  followed  it — lost.  He  loved.  He  had  confessed 
it  in  a  hundred  obvious  or  imperceptible  ways,  and 
sometimes  he  had  fancied  that  a  blush  or  a  quivering 
of  the  eylids  had  answered;  an  illusion,  perhaps.  He 
loved;  and  because  he  wanted  to  be  loved  in  turn  he 
forged  reasons  to  believe  that  he  was.  He  knew  the 
obstacle:  the  candour  and  honesty  of  his  thinking, 
which  had  made  him  what  he  was,  which  had  gained 
by  travel  abroad,  and  had  become  hostile  to  the 
established  order  of  our  hypocritical  civilization. 
He  was  a  rebel,  the  legitimate  object  of  the  combined 
efforts  of  all  the  powers.  He  knew  it.  He  was  not 
displeased  to  find  Montperrier  before  him  as  a  repre- 
sentative of  this  world,  for  his  low  greed  must  revolt 
Claudia  in  time.  But  what  if  disgust  came  too  late? 
It  was  the  decisive  question  which  he  dared  not  ask 
himself,  counting  on  the  irresolute  girl,  who  was 
swimming  with  the  current  instead  of  waiting  for  the 


THE  STRONGEST  231 

lofty  power  of  love.  He  lived  in  anxiety  and  ex- 
quisite pain,  at  once  desperate  and  hopeful,  soaring 
to  the  heights  and  falling  into  the  abyss,  eager  for  the 
horizon  to  clear,  when  he  should  set  his  course  by  the 
stars. 

The  look  of  apparently  triumphant  joy  in  Mont- 
perrier's  eyes  startled  Deschars  from  his  reveries. 
Without  further  argument  with  himself  he  made  his 
decision. 

Some  days  later  he  found  Claudia  in  the  garden  one 
evening  after  dinner  with  Harle  and  Puymaufray. 
The  moment  seemed  propitious  for  conversation. 
The  girl,  too,  felt  that  something  was  going  to  be 
defined  between  them.  When  she  saw  him  come  she 
divined  by  the  trembling  of  her  own  voice  that  the 
hour  had  come  for  him,  and  for  her.  She  hoped 
that  he  would  speak  freely — would  open  his  heart 
and  get  his  chance.  Perhaps  a  ray  of  light  for  her 
would  be  struck  off  by  his  words — the  light  of 
reason,  since  it  was  reason  she  demanded  now  that 
she  had  renounced  the  right  to  feel. 

Twilight  had  come,  the  clear  twilight  of  the  first 
days  of  spring.  Lamps  were  lit,  making  wan  spots 
in  the  failing  daylight.  Dominic  was  marching 
Henri  round  and  round  the  grass  plot,  explaining 
in  all  its  details  the  certain  success  of  his  great  pro- 
ject. As  the  two  men  came  and  went  with  the  reg- 
ularity of  clock  work — one  lost  in  his  own  triumph, 
the  other  oppressed  by  fear  of  what  might  be  said  a 


232  THE  STRONGEST 

few  paces  away  from  him — tlie  younger  couple  sat 
down  on  a  bench  for  the  talk  which  might  decide 
their  destiny. 

"Well,  mademoiselle,"  began  Deschars,  "is  The 
Marriage  at  Cana  getting  on?" 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  answered  Claudia,  determined  to 
cut  short  the  interview.  "The  Comtesse  de  Four- 
champs  will  have  to  take  over  the  reins,  because  M. 
Montperrier,  who  has  assumed  control  of  everything, 
talks  a  lot  and  does  nothing." 

"I'm  surprised.  You  seemed  so  busy  the  other 
day." 

"He  was  telling  me  his  tale  of  love.  Why  such 
a  face?  It  isn't  the  first  time  it's  happened  to  him. 
Oh,  he  didn't  pretend  it  was  a  burning  passion." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"A  gentle  flame,  with  little  clinkers,  artistically 
arranged.  It  isn't  very  warm,  nor  very  magnificent, 
but  it  may  last — under  the  ashes — longer  than  great 
fires." 

"Let's  see.  That  depends  also  on  what's  burning. 
You  know  very  well  what  M.  Montperrier  wants  of 
you." 

"My  money?  I  never  doubted  that.  He  does 
me  the  honour  not  to  allow  any  illusion  on  that 
score,  and  I  esteem  him  the  more." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"It's  very  simple.  Why  does  one  want  a  wife? 
For  what  she  is,  apparently.  Well,  I  am  I,  with  my 


THE  STRONGEST  233 

physical  and  moral  beauty — if  I  may  use  the  word — 
and  the  social  beauty  of  my  wealth,  which  is  just 
as  much  a  part  of  me  as  are  my  features  or  my  in- 
dividual characteristics.  They  will  change  with  age 
— to  my  disadvantage;  but  my  money  will  remain, 
and  grow.  All  of  that  is  I,  you  see.  I  must  be 
accepted  as  I  am.  I  can't  be  angry  because  I  am 
desired  for  my  money  any  more  than  because  I'm 
loved  for  my  eyes.  However,  I  assure  you  that 
although  M.  Montperrier  doesn't  talk  poetry  to  me, 
he  is  not  insensible  to  my  charms." 

"Oh,  it  is  terrible  for  you  to  talk  that  way.  You 
are  killing  me  wilfully.  Because  even  if  I  never 
have  told  you,  you  know  that  I  love  you,  forever: 
for  yourself,  not  for  your  father's  money." 

"Yes,  I  know  it.  And  I  am  provoking  you  into 
saying  it  after  you  have  told  me  in  so  many  other 
ways,  because  the  time  has  come  for  both  of  us  to 
look  deeply  into  ourselves.  You  love  me  for  myself, 
you  say.  What  does  that  mean?  If  my  father  were 
ruined  to-morrow  you  would  remain  faithful  to  me 
and  M.  Montperrier  would  seek  pastures  new. 
True.  On  the  other  hand,  if  I  were  suddenly  afflicted 
with  a  big  red  nose  or  were  disfigured  by  an  ac- 
cident, M.  Montperrier  would  gain  the  prize  of 
constancy  while  you,  after  noble  attempts  to  cling 
to  the  beauty  of  my  soul,  would  be  compelled  to 
confess  yourself  beaten." 

"How  can  you  joke  about  such  things?" 


234  THE  STRONGEST 

"I  am  not  joking.  I  am  only  transferring  to  my 
own  case  the  remark  about  Cleopatra's  nose  and  the 
destiny  of  the  world.  Do  you  dare  to  say  that  you 
would  love  me  if  I  were  ugly?" 

"I  love  you." 

"You  see.    You  cannot  lie " 

"I  love  you  and  M.  Montperrier  does  not  love 
you." 

"He  loves  something  else  in  me.  I  wanted  you  to 
understand " 

"I  understand  nothing  except  that  I  fled  from  you 
to  the  other  end  of  the  world  and  that  I  found  you 
everywhere  but  here,  where,  by  the  mischance  of 
life,  there  have  been  hours  when  I  have  not  known 
you  at  all." 

"What  to  do?  I  know  that  you  love  me  with  a 
pure  love.  I  should  be  a  miserable  creature  to  deny 
your  disinterestedness,  the  nobility  of  your  heart. 
I  do  not  love  M.  Montperrier  in  the  sense  in  which 
you  understand  the  word.  I  will  make  you  a  more 
complete  confession.  Without  speaking  of  our  old 
friendship,  I  like  you,  and  it  makes  me  unhappy 
to  talk  to  you  this  way.  But  I  must  be  loyal  to  my- 
self and  reason  things  out,  if  I  lack  courage  to  resist 
the  world.  I  suffer  more  than  I  can  say — for  my- 
self, for  you,  for  my  uncle,  who,  I  am  sure,  would  be 
happy  to  leave  me  in  your  care.  I  know  that  in 
certain  circumstances — I  can't  say  what  they  are — 
I  could  have  made  real  your  dream." 


THE  STRONGEST  235 

"Well?"  he  queried,  anxiously — taking  her  hand. 

"Well,"  she  answered,  painfully — withdrawing 
her  hand  from  the  gentle  pressure,  "those  circum- 
stances don't  exist  to-day.  The  way  we  think  about 
love  has  changed.  To-day  we  reason  it  out.  A  man 
may  indulge  himself  in  the  luxury  of  the  old  style; 
but  I  have  to  live  the  life  of  my  time." 

"And  does  modern  life  forbid  love?" 

"It  puts  it  into  another  setting.  Go  to  the  park 
at  Versailles.  You  see  what's  left  of  the  shepherd- 
esses? It  was  a  beautiful  day-dream.  Now  we  are 
awake." 

"And  to  what  joys?" 

"To  the  simple  realities  about  which  our  descend- 
ants may  write  poetry  some  day.  Reality,  if  I 
understand  it,  is  the  struggle  of  everybody  against 
everybody  else.  We  must  win  or  go  under.  We 
women  are  for  winning." 

"Not  all    There  are  women " 

"The  conquerors  have  rights  over  us,  I  tell  you. 
You  have  dreamed  of  me  in  another  r61e,  and  some- 
thing within  me  pleads  for  you,  I  confess.  However, 
the  attraction  of  victorious  power,  the  glory  of  bril- 
liant triumphs,  carries  me  along  with  my  time,  in 
spite  of  myself,  and  I  let  myself  go.  You  do  not 
care  about  my  vanities.  It's  very  fine.  But  I  am 
only  a  woman.  Everything  carries  me  along  to 
those  who  are  marching  to  victory.  I  have  already 
experienced  the  desire  to  command,  and  I  feel,  in 


236  THE  STRONGEST 

spite  of  myself,  that  the  power  of  the  world  is  the 
strongest." 

"I  am  a  force,  too.  The  triumph  you  are  talking 
about  is  play-acting.  The  world  is  a  lie,  and  I 
.  .  .  I  am  the  truth." 

"A  lie  that  lasts  as  long  as  life  itself  is  very  near 
to  the  truth." 

"You  will  be  disabused  to-morrow." 

"No.  Because  I  have  no  illusions  and  I  see 
whither  I  am  going.  For  the  life  for  which  I  am 
preparing,  all  I  need  is  marriage." 

"And  my  crime  is  that  I  am  offering  you  love,  isn't 
it?  It  is  too  much.  I  think  I  am  going  mad,  and 
— forgive  me  for  saying  it — I  think  you  are  going 
mad  yourself.  You  are  young,  beautiful,  rich, 
and  mistress  of  your  life.  I  know  your  spirit  is 
noble,  no  matter  what  you  say,  and  I  have  seen  you 
when  you  were  good-hearted.  From  your  childhood 
you  have  had  the  great  good  fortune  of  leaning  on  the 
greatest  affection,  of  the  noblest  heart  I  know.  And 
now  all  that  is  best  in  you,  all  you  have  imbibed  of  the 
exquisite  tenderness  that  has  brooded  over  you  and 
loves  you,  is  going  to  waste — because  the  great  fighter, 
M.  Harle,  has  a  whim — because  Montperrier  wants 
your  millions  and  makes  a  theory  out  of  his  own  selfish 
interests,  or  because  the  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps 
has  whispered  poisonous  advice  in  your  ears " 

"No.  No.  The  countess  did  not  need  to  advise 
me.  Her  life  is  object  lesson  enough." 


THE  STRONGEST  237 

"All  right,  then.  But  her  life  is  not  Life.  You 
are  taking  a  drawing  room  for  the  universe,  and  what 
a  drawing  room!" 

"The  one  into  which  my  father  brought  me/' 
"M.  Harle  cares  for  nothing  but  his  business. 
What  you  have  discovered  around  you  is  appearances, 
nothing  else.  Ah!  If  you  could  see  through  their 
lying  eyes  down  into  the  abyss  of  their  souls.  Some 
day  the  veil  will  drop.  Then — remember  our  talk 
of  to-day.  I'm  not  speaking  for  myself  any  more 
because  I  know  that  I  am  lost.  You  want  to  reason, 
because  you  do  not  love.  Ah,  if  only  you  would 
reason!  Pardon!  The  moment  is  too  serious  for 
me  to  hide  my  thoughts.  You  say  to  yourself: 
'Love  is  an  accident  of  life.'  You  set  aside  for  love 
what  will  remain  of  your  soul — wearied,  used  up, 
grown  old  with  the  immense  attempt  at  universal 
conquest  for  the  appearance  of  happiness.  In  the 
madness  of  appearing  to  be,  of  deceiving  yourself  and 
others,  you  are  sacrificing — for  all  your  talk  about 
reality — the  most  beautiful  reality,  the  royal  gen- 
erosity of  yourself  in  the  power  of  love.  You  talk 
about  love  without  knowing  what  love  is,  and  it 
isn't  your  fault  if  it  hasn't  been  awakened  in  you 
yet.  You  do  not  know  that  you  cannot  make  terms 
with  love,  that  it  demands  your  whole  being — takes 
it,  transforms  everything,  you  and  the  world  both — 
and  that,  by  the  impetuous  embrace  of  two  lives, 
the  universe  is  made  glorious  so  long  as  life  endures. 


288  THE  STRONGEST 

You  do  not  know,  you  could  not  know,  these  things, 
and  you  are  going  to  pronounce  the  most  terrible  sen- 
tence upon  yourself.  How  can  you  set  life  outside 
your  grasp  before  you  have  experienced  it?  If  you 

were  like  some  women  you  know But  you 

have  a  heart!  What  torments  you  are  laying  up 
for  yourself  in  the  future." 

"I  have  listened  to  you,  at  least.  I  admire  you. 
And  I  am  sorry  for  you.  You  have  said  some  beauti- 
ful things,  and  said  them  beautifully.  I  see  only 
one  fault  in  them,  and  that  is  that  they  are  all  a 
dream.  You  reproach  me  for  knowing  little  of  life 
and  nothing  of  love.  But  I  know  what  everyone  can 
see.  Do  you  know  what  has  struck  me  most  in  this 
great  crowd  of  people?  That  they  have  tried  every- 
thing and  nothing  has  succeeded.  I  see  all  the 
possible  combinations  of  fortunes,  and  age,  and  char- 
acter, and  feeling.  Blonds  with  brunettes,  rich  with 
poor,  good  with  wicked  (or  even  with  good,  if  you 
want),  the  ambitious  with  the  indifferent  or  with 
intriguers;  all,  I  tell  you,  have  been  tried.  And  listen 
to  the  cry  of  disappointment  and  rage  rising  from  the 
earth.  I  know  that  all  these  people  said  things  to 
each  other,  but  they  soon  found  out  that  it  was  all 
an  intoxication  and  when  they  were  through  with 
tibeir  folly  they  wept  over  themselves  and  cursed  each 
other  and  tore  at  each  other.  Your  embrace  of  two 
lives  is  a  flash  of  light,  with  ashes  forever  after." 

"So  what  hurts  you  in  love  is  that  it  is  too  beauti- 


THE  STRONGEST  239 

ful.  You  would  prefer  it  more  commonplace.  I 
think  it  is  unfortunate  for  you  to  feel  that  way  before 
you  have  attempted  the  adventure.  You  alone  can 
judge  your  strength  and  measure  your  desires  with 
it.  You  say  that  love  is  a  common  madness  of 
which  everyone,  or  nearly  everyone,  eventually  de- 
spairs. Good.  But  how  do  you  know  whether 
these  men  and  women  who  cry  out  their  eternal  re- 
gret for  the  great  lost  vision  do  not  prefer  their  mis- 
ery a  hundred  times  to  your  bitter  indifference? 
How  do  you  know  that  they  do  not  carry  one  great 
ecstasy  with  them,  even  to  the  grave?  And  then, 
why  do  you  want  me  to  count  the  millions  and  mil- 
lions that  have  fallen?  Do  you  admit  that  in  every 
ten  thousand  centuries  there  are  two  who  realize  the 
ideal  of  love?  Is  it  not  the  noblest  act  of  human 
audacity  to  throw  one's  life  into  the  chance,  for  the 
highest  achievement  of  life?  You  said  to  me  one 
day  that  you  had  thought  I  was  brave.  Must  I 
now  turn  the  reproach  upon  you?" 

"  Courage  is  not  insanity.  Do  you  remember  that 
little  poem  about  the  apple  blossom  that  was  loved 
by  the  bee?  And  when  it  became  a  little  green  apple 
the  mouse  loved  it.  And  when  it  was  ripe,  the 
sparrow  loved  it.  What  shall  I  be  ten  years  from 
now — or  you?" 

"Yes,  it  is  a  problem,  to  undergo  the  changes  of 
life  harmoniously.  Love  performs  this  miracle  be- 
cause it  renews  itself." 


240  THE  STRONGEST 

"Or  departs.  For  it  is  a  miracle  for  two  separate 
lives  to  develop  in  the  same  setting  of  feelings  and 
wills.  You  can't  risk  your  life  on  a  conjectural 
miracle.  Don't  I  know  that  you  consider  my  fortune 
odious — that  if  it  vanished  to-morrow  you  would 
think  it  a  stroke  of  luck  for  me?  We  don't  feel  the 
same  way  on  that  point,  my  dear  friend,  and  that 
makes  me  afraid.  I  belong  to  the  world,  you  see, 
and  cannot  break  away.  I  am  in  the  camp  of  the 
strongest,  as  my  father  calls  them,  and  you  are  delib- 
erately taking  your  place  among  the  conquered. 
Fortune,  birth,  the  hazards  of  fate,  group  people 
together  for  the  victories  of  a  day — which  you  de- 
spise, but  in  whose  vanities  I  must  find  my  happiness. 
You  do  not  believe  in  any  of  the  things  that  I  am 
compelled  to  believe.  You  love  none  of  the  things 
that  I  am  destined  to  love." 

"No.  No.  I  will  not  let  you  say  that.  You 
know  that  I  love  everything,  everything  on  earth  or 
in  life,  or  in  heaven.  I  love  mankind,  and  that  is 
what  you  probably  have  against  me,  at  bottom. 
I  love  a  life  of  action — yes,  of  action — in  my  modest 
sphere,  in  which  the  noble  efforts  of  the  past  con- 
tinue to  work.  I  love  life  for  the  beauty  of  its 
dreams.  I  love  it  even  to  the  point  of  death  which 
brings  forgetfulness  of  the  sorrow  of  things.  I  do 
not  need  to  pigeonhole  causes  and  effects,  to  bow 
down  before  a  word.  I  love  you,  I  tell  you,  and  I 
am  a  conqueror,  for  the  whole  world  will  fall  before 


THE  STRONGEST  241 

my  will!  I  love  you,  and  that  is  my  way  of  praying 
and  adoring.  I  love  everything  at  its  highest,  for  I 
will  not  belittle  this  eternal  power  so  that  one  man 
can  oppress  another  by  it.  I  love  you,  and  my  mad- 
ness is  such  that  I  have  put  all  my  love  into  your 
eyes.  How  proud  I  should  be  to  make  the  whole 
world  seem  enchanted  to  you1.  You  are  punishing 
me.  So  be  it!  I  will  undergo  the  punishment 
proudly.  A  dream  as  beautiful  as  mine  can  leave 
joy  behind  even  when  it  is  vanished,  even  in  the 
sadness  of  your  reality!" 

Claudia,  beaten,  was  silent  for  a  time.  Then, 
very  softly: 

"Who  knows?"  she  murmured.  "Perhaps  you 
are  right.  But  you  cannot  reason  about  everything. 
I  couldn't  do  what  you  will  do,  create  a  bitter  felicity 
for  myself  out  of  the  wreck  of  a  dream.  Each  one 
of  us  has  his  fate.  And  mine,  as  M.  Montperrier 
says,  is  a  combination  of  self-interests." 

"You,  you  alone  will  create  your  fate." 

"No.  I  tell  you  that  it  is  the  world  which  tempts 
me  and  wants  me.  It  is  the  sum  of  all  the  forces  to 
which  all  my  money-power  is  due.  And  I  am  going 
in  for  the  pleasures  of  ruling  the  world,  which  you 
caU  false — and  perhaps  you  are  right." 

"I  shall  be  eternally  unhappy  to  see  you  perish 
without  being  able  to  lift  a  hand.  I  beg  you,  help 
yourself,  help  yourself  while  yet  there  is  time.  In 
spite  of  everything,  your  eyes  have  not  deceived  me. 


242  THE  STRONGEST 

Something  within  you  will  rebel  against  the  fate  that 
you  have  chosen." 

"Then  sha'n't  I  be  as  free  as  the  rest  to  seek 
whatever  diversions  may  come?  You  know  very 
well  that  the  world  allows  everything  to  the 
strongest." 

"No.    You  will  not  want  that." 

"Very  well,  then,  I  will  have  forgetfulness." 

"You  cannot  always  forget  when  you  want  to." 

"Perhaps.    I  know  some  ways " 

He  had  risen. 

"Au  revoir?  or  good-bye?"  he  asked. 
"Au  revoir.    Won't  you  always  be  my  friend?" 
"Yes,  I  think  so,  but  far  from  you — very  far. 
When  I  say  'good-bye'  it  will  be  forever." 

He  took  the  hand  she  gave  him  and  fancied  he  felt 
a  shudder  of  sorrow  pass  through  it.  He  was  about 
to  cry  out,  to  make  a  last  effort.  But  with  a  de- 
spairing movement  the  hand  was  taken  from  his, 
and  Deschars  dropped  into  the  night  as  if  the  last 
thread  that  had  kept  him  suspended  over  the  abyss 
had  snapped. 

Claudia  remained  seated,  repeating  the  words, 
"When  I  say  'good-bye*  it  will  be  forever." 

"And  yet,  if  in  my  extremity  I  should  call  him?" 
she  thought.  "Where  would  he  be  then?  I  shall 
have  my  uncle,  my  poor  uncle.  ...  What  will 
happen  to  him?  Oh,  if  I  resigned  myself  to  his  ideal 
of  happiness  I  should  rebel  the  next  day,  and  he  would 


THE  STRONGEST  243 

suffer  as  much  as  I  should.  He  would  suffer  more, 
because  it  would  be  his  fault." 

Harle's  voice  was  heard  at  the  other  end  of  the 
garden.  The  two  strollers  had  stopped  by  a  clump 
of  trees  and  Puymaufray,  listening  for  the  slightest 
sound,  was  nervously  hearing  a  lecture  on  the  use  of 
the  masses  in  the  interests  of  the  few.  If  he  had  not 
had  his  cigar  he  could  not  have  concealed  his  anxiety 
which  grew  more  intense  as  time  sped.  Finally 
Claudia  appeared — alone.  It  was  over.  The  battle 
was  lost. 

"How's  that,  baby?"  Harle  cried.  "Has  M.  Des- 
chars  gone  without  saying  good-night?" 

"He  didn't  want  to  disturb  you,"  answered  Claudia. 
"You  seemed  so  absorbed  in  each  other.  He  asked 
me  to  make  his  excuses." 

"It's  true,"  observed  Dominic,  "that  I've  been 
interested  in  this  conversation.  There's  nothing 
like  expressing  your  ideas  for  clearing  them  up  in 
your  own  mind — best  of  all  if  you  array  them  in 
battle  order  under  the  enemy's  eyes.  For  you 
are  the  enemy,  my  poor  friend.  We  shall  never 
agree." 

A  movement  of  the  shoulders  was  Henri's  only 
answer.  Talkative  and  noisy,  with  vibrant  content- 
ment in  his  voice,  Harle  moved  toward  the  salon 
where  the  lamps  cast  a  halo  of  light.  The  others 
followed  in  silence.  Claudia  had  an  impulse  to  fling 
herself  upon  her  uncle,  to  cry,  to  weaken  totally,  in 


244  THE  STRONGEST 

reaction  from  the  stiffness  of  the  hour  that  had  just 
passed:  Henri  was  oppressed,  trembled  with  an 
irresistible  necessity  to  follow  the  fleeing  Deschars, 
to  bring  him  back,  to  take  both  these  children  in  his 
arms  and  say:  "Love  one  another." 

Who  knows  what  might  have  come  if  he  had  been 
able  to  win  Claudia  at  that  moment?  If  he  could 
shame  her  and  prevent  her  from  sacrificing  her 
youth  in  a  fit  of  madness?  But  the  other  one  was 
there,  father  by  the  will  of  society  and  by  the  law, 
imperious,  jovial,  invincible — the  strongest! 

Hardly  had  Puymaufray  gone  when  Harle  seized 
both  Claudia's  hands  and,  looking  deep  into  her 
eyes,  demanded: 

"Well,  did  vou  settle  account  with  your  noble 
lover?" 

"I?    How  did  you  know?" 

"Don't  I  always  know  what  I  need  to  know? 
Do  you  think  I  had  to  hang  around  at  your  rehearsals 
in  order  to  know  what  was  going  on?" 

"I  would  like  to  know  whether  you've  been  told 
everything?"  said  Claudia,  anxious  to  discover 
whether  the  countess  had  spoken  about  Montperrier. 

"I  know  what  I  ought  to  know.     That's  enough." 

"And  you  never  said  anything  to  me." 

"Why  should  I  insult  you  by  doubting  your  good 
sense?  You're  my  daughter,  I  suppose.  Still  better, 
you  are  my  pupil,  and  I  am  proud  to  say  it.  I  have 
worked  and  I  am  triumphing  for  you,  for  us.  Surely 


THE  STRONGEST  245 

my  life  is  an  example  and  a  far  better  lesson  than  all 
the  preaching  of  your  uncle?" 

"And  you  aren't  a  bit  afraid  that  his  sermons 
could  turn  me  from  your  way  of  thinking?" 

"Not  a  bit.  I  know  old  Henri.  He  wastes  him- 
self in  dreams.  The  happiness  he  wants  for  you  is 
inevitably  what  he  would  want  for  himself,  after  a 
wasted  life.  Deschars  is  his  friend:  there  is  a  natural 
affinity  between  useless  men.  I  understood  all  right 
that  he  would  be  happy  if  there  were  a  marriage. 
But  what  could  he  say  that  would  prevail  in  your 
soul — where  I  am  glad  to  recognize  myself — against 
the  definite  clear  lessons  of  the  world?  So  I  never 
lectured  you.  Lectures  don't  change  youth." 

"Uncle  loves  me  very  much." 

"Love  him,  too.     But  don't  obey  him." 

"And  yet,  if  he  were  right!" 

"If  he  were  right  he  wouldn't  be  a  victim  of  life 
and  I  shouldn't  be  at  the  height  of  success.  Because 
we're  going  to  be  kings,  little  one,  simply  kings! 
Do  you  want  to  be  a  queen?" 

"I  certainly  do.  Especially  if  there  aren't  any 
revolutions." 

"Silly!  The  show-kings  are  overthrown.  There 
are  no  revolutions  against  money.  There  is  no  power 
against  the  strongest." 

When  Claudia  had  gone  to  her  room  she  thought 
over  her  father's  words,  and  although  she  felt  their 
truth  she  could  not  get  over  a  vague  fear  of  the  un- 


246  THE  STRONGEST 

known.  Deschars  in  his  despair  had  spoken  with 
such  a  sureness  of  thought,  she  felt  that  he  was  sus- 
tained by  so  profound  a  faith  in  the  power  of  love, 
that  she  stopped,  despite  her  settled  will,  before  an 
irreparable  act.  Was  it  true  that  love  can  carry  us 
to  the  dizzy  heights  where  nothing  of  earth  can  touch 
us?  Perhaps.  But  it  must  be  love. 

"I'm  not  in  love,"  thought  Claudia.  "Maurice 
himself  told  me  so.  'You  are  reasoning,  because  you 
don't  love.'  Then  why  this  anxiety,  this  torment, 
this  fear"  of  myself  which  I  am  hiding  from  everyone? 
Why  did  the  terrible  word  'good-bye'  make  my  heart 
cold  with  everlasting  despair?  Why  do  I  feel  the 
need  of  seeing  him  again — him — before  I  abandon 
myself  to  my  fate,  to  ask  him  to  forgive  me?" 

While  Claudia  vainly  sought  sleep  Deschars  told 
the  dismal  tale  to  Puymaufray.  All  night  he  re- 
peated the  story  incoherently,  with  exclamations  of 
despair. 

"You  are  my  only  hope,"  Deschars  repeated. 
"All  I  can  do  is  love  her.  I  shall  always  love 
her.  Suppose  they  have  made  her  so  that  she  can 
no  longer?  love;  suppose  they  have  killed  the  noble 
heart  she  got  from  her  mother,  in  order  to  make  her 
greater  and  more  beautiful?  I  have  lost  all  power, 
all  energy  of  living.  I  came  here  confident,  joyous, 
as  sure  of  her  as  of  myself.  You  see,  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do.  And  here  I  am  crying  when  I 
ought  to  snatch  her  away,  in  spite  of  herself,  and 


THE  STRONGEST  247 

carry  her  off.  But  if  her  heart  is  really  dead,  what 
use  is  it?" 

For  hours  they  sat  there  face  to  face,  broken,  silent, 
without  thoughts,  when,  at  dawn,  a  hurried  step  in 
the  ante-room  startled  them,  the  door  opened  brus- 
quely, and  Nanette  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

"You  stopped  writing,"  she  said,  "and  here  I  am." 

She  could  say  no  more.  The  sight  of  Henri — 
pale,  defeated,  with  haggard  eyes  and  deep  furrows 
in  his  ravaged  face — frightened  her.  She  under- 
stood. Without  asking  useless  questions  she  said: 

"At  any  rate,  our  little  girl  isn't  dead.  I  have 
come.  Now  we  shall  see." 

And  when  she  was  alone  with  Henri: 

"Come,  tell  me  the  whole  thing.  I  won't  whisper 
a  word  of  it." 

When  he  had  told  her  the  old  woman  went  on: 

"It's  true  that  the  child  spoke  cruelly,  but  what 
does  that  prove?  That  she  doesn't  love  M.  Des- 
chars,  and  has  told  him  Heaven  knows  what  stories 
in  order  to  soften  the  blow.  We  have  to  find  out 
what  she  thinks  herself.  I  believe,  as  you  do,  that 
Maurice  would  have  made  her  a  fine  husband,  but 
there  are  others.  The  important  thing  is  that  she 
must  not  marry  this  M.  Montperrier  whom  you  men- 
tion. I'll  see  to  that !  But  first,  let's  get  some  rest." 

Under  the  pretext  of  being  tired  to  death  she  made 
Henri,  too,  prepare  for  bed,  and — refusing  to  talk — 
left  him,  so  that  he  had  a  much-needed  sleep. 


248  THE  STRONGEST 

When  Henri  woke,  after  midday,  Nanette  was 
already  at  Harle's  home.  Claudia  welcomed  her 
affectionately,  but  could  not  hide  her  fatigue  and 
nervousness  after  a  sleepless  night.  Her  features 
were  sadly  drawn,  her  face  trembled  perceptibly,  and 
the  bright  eyes  and  dry,  vibrant  voice  seemed  good 
signs  to  Nanette.  She  said  that,  since  Puymaufray 
hadn't  written,  she  thought  he  was  ill.  She  made  no 
allusion  to  topics  which  might  arouse  resentment. 
She  only  said  that  things  weren't  going  at  all  well  at 
Ste.  Radegonde. 

"You  can't  imagine,  ma'm'selle,  how  much  they 
need  you  down  there.  Everybody.  Because  what 
they  need  more  than  anything  else  is  a  kind  word. 
M.  Harle  has  installed  new  machinery  and  enlarged 
the  plant.  They  say  it's  producing  double  already. 
And  while  the  owner  is  growing  richer,  the  rules  for 
the  workers  are  becoming  harder.  The  foremen 
have  got  orders.  There  is  a  lot  of  discontent.  You 
ought  to  be  there  to  see  it.  You  ought  to  come  down 
for  a  fortnight.  Your  interests  are  involved,  too, 
ma'm'selle." 

"I'll  speak  to  my  father,  but  I  can't  leave  Paris. 
There  are  unfortunates  everywhere,  dear  Nanette, 
not  at  Ste.  Radegonde  alone.  I  am  busy  with  a 
charity  bazaar." 

"You  are  my  own  dear.  Tell  me  what  it  is.  Per- 
haps I  could  give  you  a  hand." 

"Yes,  of  course.    I  have  a  flower  booth.    Nat- 


THE  STRONGEST  249 

urally  I'll  have  helpers.  But  if  you  want  you  may 
stick  close  to  me  and  you'll  be  a  great  help." 

" I  shall  be  very  happy.    When  will  it  take  place?  'f 

"In  four  days.  You'll  have  to  make  yourself 
pretty." 

"Not  too  pretty,  so  as  not  to  humiliate  the  poor." 

"  Oh !    The  poor  won't  be  there." 

"So  much  the  worse.  It's  a  pleasure  you're  deny- 
ing yourself." 

Four  days  later  Nanette,  who  had  with  difficulty 
persuaded  Henri  to  drop  his  funereal  air,  arrived  at 
the  gardens  of  the  Oppert  mansion,  marvellously 
decorated  for  the  bazaar.  It  was  a  fairyland. 
Booths  strung  with  ribbons,  flowers,  banners  setting 
the  April  foliage  ablaze;  crowds  of  young  sellers  in 
gay  costumes,  a  rout  of  colours,  cries,  laughter; 
against  the  distant  background  an  invisible  orches- 
tra. Nanette's  eyes  and  mouth  opened  simulta- 
neously. 

"Oh,  Ma'm'selle  Claudia,"  she  cried,  "is  that  how 
you  do  charity  in  Paris?" 

Claudia's  booth — a  great  flowering  nook  of  mi- 
mosas, orchids,  roses,  and  lilacs — was  the  guerdon 
of  youth  on  the  armour  of  spring.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  simple  white  foulard,  a  striking  contrast  to  the 
bright  colours  of  the  setting,  showing  her  melancholy 
smile  in  sharp  relief.  Each  passer-by  received  a 
bouquet  from  one  of  her  aides,  and  was  allowed  to 
leave  an  offering  on  the  silver  plate.  Groups  gath- 


THE  STRONGEST 

ered  in  the  aisles,  around  the  grass  plots,  sheltered 
from  the  springtime  sun.  Visitors  passed  by,  with 
a  smile  or  a  nod,  or  stopped  for  a  brief  conversation. 

Deschars  and  Puymaufray  came  in  turn.  They 
tried  not  to  linger  lest  they  might  interfere  with 
sales.  Deschars  was  very  calm,  as  if  nobly  pitying. 
Puymaufray  took  the  two  flowers  that  Claudia  and 
Nanette  offered  him,  and,  with  an  affectionate  smile, 
put  them  in  his  buttonhole.  Montperrier  diplo- 
matically made  but  a  slight  stop  at  the  booth  and 
negligently  dropped  some  bills  on  the  plate.  The 
dowry  was  already  in  action.  Deschars's  two  louis 
for  a  rose  seemed  mean  in  comparison.  Nanette, 
whose  sole  duty  was  to  hand  out  bouquets,  listened 
and  admired  but  understood  nothing. 

Lunch  served  on  little  tables  amid  the  flowers 
brought  the  group  together.  Claudia  and  Harle,  with 
the  countess  and  the  baron,  were  first;  then  came 
Mme.  du  Peyrouard,  followed  by  Montperrier.  Des- 
chars could  not  be  found,  and  Puymaufray  had  made 
some  excuse.  Over  the  champagne  the  baron  asked 
to  be  introduced  to  Nanette  and  insisted  that  she 
clink  glasses  with  him  to  the  health  of  Puymaufray. 

"With  great  pleasure,  M'sieur  le  Baron,  although 
I  don't  believe  in  wishes.  My  father  used  to  say 
that  if  wishes  were  horses,  beggars  would  ride." 

"Your  father  must  have  been  a  singular  sort  of 
person/'  answered  the  baron,  gaily.  "Still,  a  wish 
is  a  nice  thing.  And  besides,  there  must  be 


THE  STRONGEST  251 

pedestrians.  Or  what  should  we  do  with  the 
sidewalks?" 

In  the  evening  they  balanced  accounts.  Counting 
the  sale  of  tickets  for  the  tableaux  vivants  they  had 
taken  in  two  hundred  and  eighteen  thousand  francs 
of  which  Claudia  had  taken  nearly  forty  thousand. 
Lucienne  Preban  herself  had  only  taken  in  thirty- 
seven  thousand.  It  was  a  triumph  which  Claudia 
and  Harle  both  savoured.  They  were  bound  to  be 
grateful  to  Montperrier  who  had  unostentatiously 
herded  all  the  government  people  down  in  front  of  the 
booth.  To  him  Claudia  owed  her  three  thousand 
francs  advantage  over  Lucienne  Preban,  as  the 
countess  pointed  out.  Harle  was  particularly  grate- 
ful to  the  young  man  for  a  cleverly  arranged  conver- 
sation with  the  Minister  of  the  Interior,  president 
of  the  Council,  who,  after  complimenting  Claudia, 
announced  that  he  was  deeply  interested  in  the 
Universal  Daily,  announcements  of  which  had  been 
posted  on  every  billboard  within  the  past  eight  days. 

When  they  left  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore,  Claudia 
and  Nanette  got  out  of  their  carriage  at  the  Rond- 
point  des  Champs-Elysees  and  started  to  walk  to- 
ward the  Place  de  PEtoile,  so  that  Claudia  could  get 
rid  of  a  headache,  due  to  too  much  talking,  she  said. 

They  had  hardly  gone  ten  steps  when  a  very  de- 
cently dressed  old  woman  accosted  them  in  a  low 
voice,  holding  out  a  trembling  hand.  Claudia, 
unable  to  find  her  purse,  shook  her  head.  Nanette 


252  THE  STRONGEST 

was  shocked  by  the  contrast  between  the  refusal  and 
the  sumptuous  charity  of  the  hour  before. 

She  stopped  and  gave  the  old  woman  a  one-franc 
piece.  At  the  sight  of  the  silver  coin  the  beggar  was 
convulsed  with  sobs  and  cried  in  a  choking  voice: 
"Oh,  thank  you,  madame,  thank  you.  If  you  only 
knew!  If  you  could  only  know!  I  will  pray  for 

you I  will  pray."    And  she  started  to  run 

madly   toward   the  faubourg,   disappearing  before 
they  could  ask  a  question. 

"Oh,  Lord,"  groaned  Nanette.  "To  think  that 
there  are  people  so  miserable  that  the  sight  of  a 
franc  puts  them  into  such  a  state!" 

"Well,  you  see,  we  give.  I  gave  forty  thousand 
francs  to-day." 

"To  whom?" 

"I  don't  know.    To  people  I'll  never  see." 

"You  wouldn't  do  that  at  Ste.  Radegonde,  Ma'm'- 
selle  Claudia.  It  is  good  to  see  the  unfortunate,  to 
listen  to  them  and  to  talk  to  them.  It  is  a  good  thing 
for  us." 

"Yes,  my  uncle  says  that." 

"He  does  that,  too." 

"Do  you  think,  Nanette,  that  he  ever  gave  forty 
thousand  francs  in  one  day — like  me?" 
•  "Not  in  his  whole  life.  But  he  has  given  more. 
He  has  given  his  friendship,  his  trouble,  he  has  sym- 
pathized, and  he  has  been  loved  for  it.  He  is  loved. 
Do  you  think  you  can  weigh  goodness  on  the  scale 


THE  STRONGEST  253 

with  money?  You  get  hundreds  and  thousands  out 
of  people  and  have  a  good  time  doing  it,  and  you 
don't  ever  take  the  trouble  to  find  out  whom  you 
are  helping  with  all  that  money.  And  you  think 
you  are  doing  more  than  the  finest  man  on  earth. 
And  here  a  miserable  woman  asks  you  for  alms.  You 
pass  by  without  ever  caring  to  know  anything  about 
her.  She  almost  fainted  for  joy  for  a  franc,  and  if 
you  had  given  her  only  one  of  your  gloves  she  could 
have  lived  on  it  for  three  or  four  years." 

Claudia  looked  at  her  gloves,  each  button  of  which 
was  a  small  pearl,  a  refinement  of  luxury  disapproved 
of  by  Henri  but  done  in  imitation  of  the  countess. 

"It  is  settled,"  she  thought,  angrily.  "They  are 
all  in  a  conspiracy  against  my  pleasures." 

And  Nanette,  who  could  not  remain  silent  under  a 
reproach — and  from  Claudia,  upon  her  Henri — was 
suddenly  calm. 

"I've  made  a  stupid  mistake,"  she  said  to  herself. 


CHAPTER 

TTTC  Universal  Daily  was  only  a  month  old  and 
its  success  had  already  passed  beyond  the 
hopes  of  its  founders.  All  the  statesmen  of 
the  Republic  acclaimed  Dominic  Harle's  stroke  of 
genius.  He  understood  the  masses  which,  as  he 
loved  to  say,  would  rather  be  informed  than  taught. 

"The  busy  man,"  he  would  say  to  Oppert,  "can't 
be  bothered.  He  wants  to  know  approximately  and 
quickly  what  is  going  on  around  him.  Between 
smokes  you  have  to  provide  him  with  a  very  simple 
judgment  more  or  less  agreeing  with  present-day 
ideas,  which  he  must  respect  in  order  to  live.  My 
idea  is  to  give  it  to  him,  also  to  his  wife,  busy  with 
housekeeping  or  a  new  dress.  Every  man  must 
find  his  support  in  the  accepted  opinions  of  society 
in  order  to  take  his  share  in  the  common  life. 
Whether  they  are  prejudices  or  eternal  truths  does 
not  matter.  The  thinkers  of  the  next  century  will 
decide  that  as  they  please.  A  solid  basis  of  current 
ideas — that's  the  surest  foundation  of  life." 

"Splendid,  my  dear  friend,"  agreed  the  baron. 
"Never  forget  it.  Look  at  the  great  public  we've 
won  simply  by  putting  our  social  catechism  in  the 

254 


THE  STRONGEST  255 

form  of  anecdotes.  Stick  to  that,  for  your  life. 
And,  above  all,  don't  let  them  suspect  that  you  want 
to  influence  them.  Just  omit — or  colour — your  infor- 
mation. What  you  need  is  the  trick  of  it." 

Since  he  had  conceived  the  programme,  Harle 
had  the  glory  of  realizing  it.  As  the  conqueror  is 
surrounded  by  warriors  the  paper-maker,  by  the 
mere  power  of  action,  found  himself  surrounded  by 
the  elite.  He  counted  among  his  readers  the  farmers, 
the  shepherds  on  the  mountain  slopes,  and  the  crown- 
ed heads  of  Europe.  It  was  his  triumph. 

The  factory  at  Ste.  Radegonde  expanded  enor- 
mously. Crowds  of  builders  descended  on  the  village, 
and  there  was  a  constant  procession  of  new  machines 
behind  the  high  walls  they  erected.  Every  day 
came  new  orders  for  further  development.  It 
seemed  that  there  could  be  no  limit.  The  number  of 
employes  had  more  than  doubled  and  recruiting  still 
continued.  Whole  cities  were  thrown  up  for  the* 
workers,  with  schoolhouses,  aid  stations,  shops,  and 
chapels,  keeping  pace  with  the  factory.  It  was  a 
whole  city  of  men,  women,  and  children,  chained  to 
the  machine  for  their  living,  and  chained  by  their 
living  to  the  one  who  set  them  to  work,  for  they 
were  dependent  on  the  master  for  every  need  of 
body  and  soul,  by  his  wages  compelled  to  yield, 
to  kneel  before  his  benevolence,  as  enslaved  as  were 
ever  those  serfs  whose  emancipation  we  celebrate 
with  such  gratitude  to  ourselves.  A  change  in  the 


256  THE  STRONGEST 

name,  as  the  baron  said,  and  under  the  changing 
words  the  everlasting  mastery  of  the  strongest. 

The  dismantled  old  town  had  rebuilt  itself  magni- 
ficently, losing  only  the  picturesque  beauty  of  its 
ancient  walls.  The  feudal  chief  had  returned, 
master  of  human  lives,  dispensing  joy  in  his  benevo- 
lence, or  punishment  in  anger;  decreeing  with  a  dark- 
ening brow  that  chains  should  be  restored,  or  shifted, 
or  decreeing  death.  The  murderous  selfishness  of 
the  strongest  remains  unchanged  in  the  various  set- 
tings of  changing  society  and  revives  under  new  names 
the  slaveries  abolished  under  the  old.  Is  there  any 
law  but  the  law  of  force  between  those  that  want  to 
mount  and  those  that  have  reached  the  heights 
and  wish  to  intensify  their  superiority? 

"When  all  the  forms  of  the  abuse  of  power  have 
been  exhausted,"  Baron  Oppert  said,  "then  the 
peace  of  perfect  justice  will  reign  on  earth." 

"I  can't  wait  until  then,"  answered  Harle,  whose 
activity  was  spreading  from  Paris  to  Ste.  Radegonde 
with  a  new  fury. 

Harle  was  not  cruel  and  took  as  little  pleasure  as 
did  his  hero  Napoleon  in  the  torturous  sufferings 
on  which  his  glory  was  built.  He  was  insensitive 
merely,  like  an  accountant  who  never  wonders  what 
his  figures  may  prove.  It  is  the  mastering  force  for 
the  leaders  of  men  on  the  road  to  the  great  slaughter- 
houses of  war  or  industry.  What  could  a  Puymau- 
fray  know  of  it? 


THE  STRONGEST  £57 

"Well,  will  you  admit  now  that  I  was  right?** 
Harle"  asked  his  friend.  "Am  I  or  am  I  not  master 
of  the  great  social  forces  which  guide  the  world? 
I  am  not  speaking  of  money,  which  is  only  the  ex- 
pression of  the  whole  thing.  Look  at  the  poor 
wretches  who  say  they  have  power  and  tell  me  if 
any  one  of  them  really  governs  the  masses  more 
effectively  than  I  do.  That's  because  I  have  really 
understood  this  great  enemy,  the  mob,  the  terror 
of  the  governing  classes,  and  I  was  able  to  formulate 
its  spirit.  And  now,  since  I've  got  the  crowd  I've 
got  everybody  dependent  on  me,  everybody  who 
wants  to  do  anything.  The  opposition  is  fighting 
shadows.  The  governments  obey  me  and  the  Church 
is  friendly  because  my  foundations  are  dug  deep. 
It  is  I  who  keep  the  Government  by  the  strongest  in 
action,  according  to  our  modern  formulas." 

"Possibly,"  said  Henri.  "But  I  still  say  that  the 
weak  will  have  their  day,  too." 

"But  they  have  it  now,  my  friend.  Every  day 
that  passes  is  theirs.  Look  about  you.  They  come 
into  our  ranks  one  by  one,  they  share  in  our  advan- 
tages, enter  into  our  spirit  and  our  interests:  they 
become  more  ardent  than  we  are  in  the  battle  against 
the  weaker." 

"I  am  speaking  of  justice  for  all." 

"That's  for  heaven:  I  am  not  impious k  I  don't 
want  to  realize  it  here.'* 

Claudia  listened  to  this  discussion,  which  she  had 


258  THE  STRONGEST 

heard  so  often,  and  for  the  first  time  it  struck  home 
to  her.  Her  father's  situation  had  become  unreas- 
onably greater  and  puffed  her  with  a  pride  of  power 
corrupting  the  finer  qualities  of  her  spirit.  Dazzled 
by  a  vision  of  royalty  she  let  herself  be  carried  farther 
and  farther  away  along  the  mad  current,  away  from 
her  uncle,  a  sad  rebel  against  the  union  of  the  strong- 
est to  dominate  the  earth.  Unquestionably  she  loved 
him,  wanted  to  love  him.  But  what  could  she  do  if 
they  could  not  agree, "  since  their  tastes  were  not  of  the 
same  world  ?  "  she  asked.  For  henceforth  she  thought 
of  herself  as  of  the  aristocracy,  and  the  Marquis  de 
Puymaufray  was  sinking  into  utter  treason. 

It  was  incredible  but  Harle  was  even  now  only  a 
chevalier  of  the  Legion  d'Honneur.  The  minister  him- 
self had  brought  him  the  decoration  apologizing  for 
not  doing  more  at  the  moment.  A  friendly  interview 
followed  and  the  head  of  the  Universal  Daily  was 
pleased  to  promise  his  protection  to  the  Cabinet 
member. 

"I've  never  read  anything  of  yours,"  he  said.  "I 
am  too  busy  doing  things  to  find  time  to  read.  But 
capable  judges  tell  me  that  you  know  a  lot  and  have 
a  ready  pen.  I  know  that  you  didn't  always  defend 
the  right  side.  It  seems  that  you  were  once  very 
radical,  some  few  years  ago.  But  youth  must  pass! 
It  is  past,  isn't  it?  If  it  is,  you  can  be  sure  I'll  be 
happy  if  I  can  ever  serve  you." 


THE  STRONGEST  259 

The  statesman  bowed,  deeply  embarrassed  by 
this  frankness.  Harle  was  afraid  of  frightening  him 
and  wanted  to  show  that  he  was  a  good  fellow. 

"I  assure  you,"  he  said,  as  he  might  have  said 
'thank  you'  for  a  light,  "I'm  pleased  with  your  little 
ribbon.  I  see  you  haven't  anything  in  your  button- 
hole. Pity.  You  ought  to  set  a  good  example." 

"But,  M.  Harle,"  said  the  minister,  "it  was  to  set 
a  good  example  that  the  Government  gave  you " 

"I  admit  that  you  couldn't  do  it  without  us.  The 
great  handlers  of  men  will  always  be  kings  of  the 
earth,  and  I  say  that  without  false  modesty." 

"Kings?  How  do  you  mean  that?  The  Re- 
public  " 

"Of  course.  I  know  that  tune.  I  am  more  of  a 
republican  than  you  are,  my  dear  minister,  because 
the  Republic  is  me!  Ah!  you  do  not  protest?  In 
the  old  days  kings  clad  themselves  in  armour  and 
put  ridiculous  crowns  on  their  heads  in  order  to 
govern  the  people.  Duels  to  the  death  were  fash- 
ionable in  those  days.  Public  opinion  demanded 
it.  You  had  to  fight.  The  King  had  his  choice  of 
opponents.  That's  all.  It  wasn't  very  grand. 
In  any  case,  it's  done  with.  Since  Napoleon  there's 
nothing  to  be  done  but  strictly  mathematical  slaugh- 
ter. The  human  race  nowadays  wants  to  live,  and 
that  is  what  we,  simple,  middle-class  people,  are  here 
for.  We  satisfy  their  need.  We  set  people  to  work. 
What  else  do  they  want?  They  produce  and  they 


260  THE  STRONGEST 

live:  that  is  a  great  step  ahead  of  the  time  when  they 
massacred  each  other.  I  think  that  service  is  worth 
its  tithe,  don't  you?  They  will  talk  a  long  time 
about  the  tax.  Fortunately,  with  your  help,  we  our- 
selves fix  the  rate  of  taxation,  and  I  think  that's  right 
because  that's  just  where  you  get  your  spirit  of  enter- 
prise, which  makes  our  usefulness  so  superior.  So- 
called  thinkers  deny  our  right  to  the  gratitude  of  the 
crowd.  Why  shouldn't  they  be  grateful  to  us  who 
distribute  the  wherewithal  of  life,  since  they  have 
never  stopped  praising  those  that  led  them  into 
slaughter?  There's  only  one  answer  to  the  dreamers. 
Human  justice  means  the  liberty  of  everybody,  lead- 
ing to  the  sovereign  authority  of  the  strongest, 
through  the  ways  of  peace,  as  formerly  through  the 
paths  of  war.  That  is  why,  my  dear  sir,  you  are 
decorating  me  in  the  name  of  the  Republic.  Isn't 
that  so?" 

"I  admire  your  lucidity  of  expression,  sir,  and  the 
rigorous  logic  of  your  deductions." 

"We  shall  meet  again.  Please  present  my  compli- 
ments to  the  President  of  the  Republic." 

It  was  on  the  night  of  the  tableaux  vivants  that 
Harle  came  to  his  apotheosis.  The  rehearsals  had 
languished  suddenly;  all  minds  were  in  suspense 
owing  to  the  number  of  great  ideas.  From  day  to 
day  they  ha'd  quarrelled.  However,  the  time  came 
when  everything  was  ready,  even  The  Marriage  at 


THE  STRONGEST  261 

Cana  which  had  to  be  composed  quite  differently 
from  Veronese's  conception.  When  they  went  down 
to  the  Salon  Carre  to  look  for  ideas,  Montperrier 
and  Alphonse  de  Valbois  were  stupefied  to  find  that 
in  all  its  magnificence  the  picture  gave  place  to  but 
three  women  besides  the  Saviour  and  His  Mother. 
It  was  impossible  to  think  of  putting  a  little  dog  on 
the  table,  or  to  show  a  princess  picking  her  teeth. 
The  genius  of  De  Valbois  was  therefore  freed  from 
the  shackling  necessity  of  making  a  servile  copy, 
and  he  gave  himself  free  rein.  The  richness  of  the 
costumes,  for  which  Morgan's  knowledge  had  been 
invoked,  with  the  splendour  of  young  faces,  made  a 
spectacle  highly  agreeable  to  the  eye. 

Harle  had  given  free  hand  to  his  architect.  It  is 
enough  to  mention  that  fact.  The  splendour  of  the 
decorations  surpassed  anything  ever  seen  in  that 
style.  The  Aged  and  Incorrigible  might  well  have 
been  proud  of  the  magnificent  effort  of  charity  made 
in  their  behalf.  No  one  can  say  whether  any  one 
there  gave  a  thought  to  the  lamentable  debris  of 
humanity  which  expiates  the  crime  of  poverty  under 
our  eyes.  Harle  generously  wrote  off  the  forty 
thousand  francs  which  his  house-warming  cost  him 
to  their  account.  So  in  that  sense  they  were  present 
in  his  memory. 

At  the  very  beginning  they  had  distributed  all  the 
available  seats,  but  requests  for  more  flowed  in.  The 
rumour  that  marvels  were  to  be  seen  was  current. 


262  THE  STRONGEST 

In  addition  to  Paris,  the  Prince  de  Luques  carried 
all  of  America  in  his  train,  for  it  is  a  great  point  to 
have  your  name  cabled  home  in  good  company  for 
newspaper  readers  in  the  New  World.  Besides, 
they  had  to  see  Harle,  the  man  of  the  hour,  talk  to 
him,  congratulate  him,  pay  homage  to  him  in  passing, 
and  inscribe  one's  name  in  his  good  books,  if  occasion 
should  arise.  With  prodigious  skill  they  managed  to 
give  place  to  everyone  who,  for  any  reason,  seemed 
to  have  a  right  to  one. 

It  was  a  colossal  success;  there  were  shouts  of 
admiration,  applause,  a  very  storm  of  men  of  the 
world.  The  Queen  of  Sheba  and  Solomon  brought 
forth  cries  of  praise.  The  two  Indian  tableaux,  and 
especially  the  Temptation  of  Buddha,  were  no  less 
well  received.  The  happiest  moment  was  when  the 
artists  mingled  with  the  audience  after  the  final 
tableau.  Everyone  wanted  to  see  the  marvellous 
costumes  close  at  hand,  to  praise  the  designs,  to 
touch  the  material,  to  find  out  if  they  were  in  style, 
to  obtain  some  information  concerning  this  queer 
Indian  prince  who  looked  idly  at  his  fingernails 
while  so  rare  a  troupe  of  dancing  girls  were  suggesting 
other  matters  for  his  attention.  A  discreet  note 
written  by  Deschars  for  the  programme  told  in 
advance  everything  that  had  to  be  known.  But 
the  indifference  of  the  "forerunner,"  as  the  countess 
called  him,  was  none  the  less  the  subject  of  the  most 
ironic  comments. 


THE  STRONGEST  263 

Lucienne  Preban,  a  frigid  golden  idol,  strolled 
through  the  respectful  crowd  under  a  mask  of  indif- 
ference, the  enigma  of  her  weariness.  The  countess 
— royally  arrayed,  darting  insolent  flames  from  her 
armoury  of  jewels — softened  the  effect  of  her  theat- 
rical pride  with  her  captivating  smile.  Claudia  was 
like  an  opium  eater's  vision  of  paradise.  She  spark- 
led with  countless  spangles  and  was  dressed  in  a  rain- 
bow of  gauze  which  revealed,  perhaps  a  little  too 
frankly,  the  still  uncertain  lines  of  youth:  her  dark 
face  was  lit  up  with  twin  suns.  The  excessive  hom- 
age of  the  crowd  followed  her  and  enveloped  her. 
She  savoured  it  proudly  and  became  drunk  with  its 
delicious  fumes.  She  forgot  everything:  her  uncle 
miserably  thrown  about  by  the  crowd,  prey  to  de- 
spair. Deschars,  seeing  her  pass  with  her  veils, 
thought  of  the  time  when,  lost  in  a  strange  land,  he 
had  been  happy  collecting  these  things  to  adorn  her 
whom  he  loved. 

Both  of  them  felt  far  removed  from  the  thought 
which  had  been  haunting  them.  In  order  to  avoid 
seeing  the  madness  of  those  evocative  eyes,  which 
seemed  like  a  profanation  of  Claire's  soul  to  him, 
Puymaufray  departed,  mad  with  despair. 

"This  time,"  he  thought,  "everything  is  lost,  and 
it's  my  fault.  I  promised  to  give  my  life  to  save  my 
child,  to  protect  from  the  dirtiness  of  the  world  all 
that  remains  of  the  most  beautiful  dream  of  love. 
All  I  managed  to  do  was  to  preach,  and  Claudia, 


264  THE  STRONGEST 

glad  to  get  away  from  me,  is  throwing  herself 
into  the  depths.  What  could  I  do?  Dominic  was 
there,  taking  his  revenge  every  day.  I  am  only  a 
dreamer,  he  says.  Perhaps  that  is  what  gave  me 
my  supreme  happiness,  just  as  it  causes  my  misery 
to-day." 

Deschars  had  fled,  like  a  criminal  hurrying  to  hide 
his  shame. 

Meantime,  the  joys  of  the  f£te  were  growing,  with 
music,  gallantry,  laughter,  and  intrigues.  Mme.  du 
Peyrouard — a  lady  in  waiting  in  the  court  of  the 
Queen  of  Sheba — was  to  be  seen  wherever  a  word 
had  to  be  said,  and  her  brother,  Etienne  Mont- 
perrier,  was  not  far  off.  It  is  a  thankless  task  for  an 
actor  to  be  ever  on  the  stage,  but  it  brings  its  reward 
sooner  or  later.  It  is  a  mixture  of  work  and  pleasure 
in  which  he  sometimes  confuses  life  with  the  part 
he  is  playing. 

Montperrier  spied  on  the  dancing  girl  at  a  distance 
and  concluded  from  the  pride  in  her  eyes  that  he  would 
profit  from  this  triumph.  Claudia,  living  in  every 
fibre,  drank  deep  draughts  of  this  enchanted  life, 
and  walked  in  a  dream  of  a  royal  fairyland.  Feasted 
with  all  the  eager  looks  bent  upon  her,  hearing  the 
hum  of  swarming  adulation,  the  agitated  girl  said  to 
herself :  "  The  world  is  mine :  I  can  do  everything." 
She  did  not  understand  that  the  world  had  taken 
her  and  that  her  imaginary  power  was  only  the  cur- 
rent which  was  carrying  away  her  life.  Alas! 


THE  STRONGEST  265 

how  could  she  escape  the  common  illusion  when 
everything  conspired  for  falsehood,  when  the  true 
happiness,  repulsed  by  her,  was  gone  with  the  man 
who  could  do  nothing  for  her  but  love  her. 

She  neither  saw  nor  sought  to  find  her  "uncle" — 
her  father — bowed  under  the  weight  of  the  useless 
treasure  of  his  love.  She  was  struck  by  the  brilliant 
desire  which  was  masked  under  homage  and  adora- 
tion. What  did  she  care  if  they  were  making  cal- 
culations on  her,  since  she  was  doing  the  same,  and 
had  all  the  advantage.  "I  can  do  everything." 
What  was  she  to  do  with  this  power?  She  was  mis- 
tress of  her  life.  Should  she  let  her  heart  speak? 
Trust  herself  to  her  uncle  who  loved  her  and  whom 
she  loved? — say  to  the  gallant  young  man  who  had 
shown  her  the  high  road:  "I  am  with  you,  let  our 
destiny  be  one?"  No.  The  only  thought  she  had 
of  this  liberty  to  act  was  to  increase,  and  increase 
forever,  the  extent  of  her  domination.  And  the 
choice  of  a  husband  came  down  to  no  more  than 
this:  a  computation  of  how  much  power  she  could 
demand  in  return  for  the  power  of  her  wealth. 
It  was  for  this  commerce  that  she  was  going  to 
sacrifice  her  youth,  her  life,  and  even  the  hope  of 
love. 

The  nobility,  ruined  or  not,  has  always  sought  its 
bath  of  gold,  even  if  it  had  to  seek  it  in  the  depths. 
"Duchess"— -thought^Claudia— " that's  only  a  name. 
I  must  have  more."  She  looked  at  Montperrier, 


266  THE  STRONGEST 

lavishing  his  gifts  on  everybody,  sought  for,  loved, 
envied,  saluted  for  the  power  he  would  have.  He 
was,  like  Harle,  a  man  of  action.  In  their  different 
spheres  these  two  forces  could  agree,  could  combine 
for  a  development  of  sovereignty  of  which  she  would 
be  the  magnificent  flower.  Oh,  it  was  not  the  ideal 
of  the  philosophers,  of  course!  But  what  could  her 
uncle  or  Deschars  offer  to  compare  with  this  magic 
of  happy  life  which  her  father's  salon  made  real? 
Who  could  avoid  the  dazzling  splendour?  Who  could 
help  getting  dizzy? 

The  spectacle  was  beautiful  enough,  for  the  elite 
of  Paris  society  was  bowing  down  before  the  all- 
powerful  Harle,  a  living  proof  of  the  accuracy  of 
Claudia's  calculations.  Oppert  had  his  proper  share 
o£  praise  for  his  charity.  Even  after  Harle  and  after 
Baron  Oppert,  Montperrier  shone  with  the  beauty 
of  a  rising  star.  What  Claudia  admired  above  all 
was  the  great  modesty  of  a  man  who  was  saturated 
with  triumph. 

"What  is  all  this" — he  seemed  to  say — "compared 
with  what  is  coming?" 

As  the  evening  was  ending  he  came  up  to  Claudia 
to  say  good-night  i 

"Well,  are  you  satisfied?"  he  asked.  "You  know 
that  all  we  did  was  for  your  pleasure." 

"In  that  case  you  have  succeeded  beyond 
my  hopes.  This  will  be  a  red-letter  day  in  my 
life." 


THE  STRONGEST  267 

"How  happy  I  should  be  if  I  dared  to  think  that  I 
might  be  part  of  that  memory — no  matter  how  slight 
a  part." 

"You  mil  dare — unless  I  misjudge  you  utterly." 

He  looked  into  the  very  depths  of  her  eyes. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  answered,  "I  thank  you  for 
saying  that.  My  pride  will  keep  me  from  taking 
advantage  of  it.  A  man  can't  offer  himself  to  a 
queen.  The  queen  always  chooses  those  whom  she 
thinks  fit  to  serve  her.  If  some  day  you  want  me  to 
serve  you,  make  a  sign." 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  Claudia  put  hers  in  it — 
gently,  as  if  held  back  by  a  last  regret. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  room  the  Comtesse  de 
Fourchamps  found  her  two  hands  imprisoned  in 
those  of  Harle,  who  would  not  let  her  go.  She,  seemed 
very  serious  and  Montperrier  caught  her  last  words 
in  passing: 

"No,  no,  my  dear  friend.  We  must  wait  until 
to-morrow.  Then  we  will  talk." 

Very  much  at  home,  before  a  console  heaped  with 
flowers,  Harle's  chief  reporter  was  making  notes : 

"The  great  world  of  Parisian  charity  was  gathered 
last  night  in  the  salon  of  M.  Harle,  our  illustrious 
confrere.  The  salon  was  decorated  with  the  magni- 
ficence peculiar  to  those  whose  generosity  rises  be- 
yond the  common " 

And,  pale  with  rage,  the  reporter  muttered: 

"If  I  could  but  tear  off  the  masks,  expose  these 


268  THE  STRONGEST 

people  naked  to  the  world,  tell  what  impulses  brought 
each  one  here;  reveal  the  inner  truth,  the  awakening 
desires,  the  intrigues,  the  low  greed,  the  sterility 
of  their  minds,  the  poverty  of  their  hearts!  Ah! 
what  misery  for  the  rich  and  what  a  revenge  for  me!" 


P 


CHAPTER  XTV 

UYMAUFRAY  went  to  call  on  Claudia  the 
next  afternoon.  He  sent  his  name  up.  In 
reply  he  received  this  brief  note: 


DEAR  UNCLE: 
I  haven't  slept.    I'll  be  dressed  in  an  hour. 

CLAUDIA. 

Although  she  had  not  slept,  Claudia  was  already 
active  and  a  note  had  been  despatched  to  Deschars 
with  this  command: 

Come  to-night  after  dinner. 

She  wanted,  however,  to  set  her  ideas  in  order  a 
little  more  for  her  uncle.  The  explanation  to  him 
was  the  only  one  she  feared. 

Puymaufray  wandered  about  at  haphazard  and 
spent  his  hour  turning  the  dagger  in  his  wound, 
telling  himself  a  thousand  times  that  he  had  done 
nothing,  and  asking  himself  a  thousand  times: 
"What  could  I  do?"  The  supreme  trial  had  come. 
A  remnant  of  hope  intensified  the  anguish  of  his 


270  THE  STRONGEST 

eternal  question:  "What  words,  what  appeal  can  I 
find  to  awaken  my  child,  to  make  Claire  live  again?" 

He  was  at  the  end  of  the  tether,  exhausted  with  his 
suffering,  when  he  came  into  the  little  white  room 
where  Claudia  waited  for  him,  herself  in  a  state  of 
nervous  tension  due  to  the  party  of  the  previous 
night  and  aggravated  by  the  emotions  of  the  battle 
she  was  fighting.  Puymaufray  saw  Claudia — pale, 
shaking,  with  bright  eyes  and  a  dry  voice — hostile; 
and  after  a  perfunctory  embrace,  as  of  gladiators  in 
the  arena,  he  received  her  direct  attack. 

"My  dear  Uncle,  you  probably  know  that  I  can 
guess  what  you  are  going  to  tell  me.  I  have  had  the 
misfortune  of  hurting  M.  Deschars  by  announcing 
that  we  two  were  not  made  for  each  other.  What 
do  you  expect?  We  don't  feel  alike.  You  know  it 
would  be  useless  to  try  to  do  me  violence,  and  I  do 
you  the  justice  of  saying  that  you  yourself  never 
thought  of  such  a  thing.  However,  I  can't  help 
knowing  that  you  would  have  liked  me  to  accept 
your  friend.  It  is  a  great  point  in  his  favour,  and  I 
feel  it.  But  you  must  allow  me  to  bring  my  own 
personal  considerations  to  bear;  they  are  valuable 
because  they  are  mine.  So  why  should  we  quarrel?  " 

"But,  unhappy  girl,  what  are  you  saying?  Have 
I  ever  quarrelled  with  you?  Why  are  you  on  the 
aggressive  before  my  first  word?" 

"Because  I  know  everything  you  are  going  to  say 
to  me,  or  at  least  what  you  think." 


THE  STRONGEST  271 

"  As  for  what  I  think,  it  doesn't  seem  as  if  you  care 
about  that.  And  you're  mistaken  about  what  I  am 
going  to  say.  I  am  not  here  to  talk  about  Maurice. 
I  like  him  very  much:  I  admit  it.  He  is  a  man. 
He  is  young,  proud,  and  good:  he  believes  in  life  and 
he  loves  you.  That  isn't  enough,  since  you  do  not 
love  him.  I  am  very  sorry — for  you  especially.  I 
didn't  give  you  any  advice,  for  I  knew  that  you  would 
reject  it:  so  I  haven't  anything  to  say  on  the  subject 


now." 


"Then  tell  me,  frankly,  what  you  want  of  me." 

"Very  well.  I  don't  want  you  to  marry  M.  Mont- 
perrier.  That's  clear,  isn't  it?  " 

"Nothing  could  be  clearer.  Now  you  have  only 
to  give  me  your  reason." 

"My  reason  is  that  all  he  wants  is  your  money." 

"Say  that  he  wants  me  and  my  position,  just  as  I 
will  accept  him  with  his  situation.  Don't  we  all 
count  things  up  the  same  way?" 

"No." 

"Oh,  yes.  M.  Deschars  would  marry  me  if  I  were 
a  shepherdess.  Perhaps  he  would  be  wrong.  You 
can't  spend  a  lifetime  saying  'I  love  you'.  If  those 
three  words  were  enough  for  happiness  we  should 
have  paradise  on  earth;  because  there  seems  plenty 
of  that.  People  must  agree,  I  know.  So  must  the 
settings  of  life.  M.  Montperrier  has  a  great  future, 
it  seems  to  me.  My  money  promises  a  future,  too. 
He  is  young;  like  M.  Deschars,  he  has  his  pride;  I 


272  THE  STRONGEST 

haven't  seen  him  unkind.  He  says  he  loves  me.  It 
isn't  any  too  unusual.  Why  shouldn't  I  marry 
him?" 

"Because  you  do  not  love  him.  Because  he  is 
old  in  spite  of  all  his  youth;  old  in  spirit,  old  in  heart, 
exhausted  with  pretences,  dried  up  with  his  figuring. 
And  he  cannot  be  good  because  his  strength  is  made 
up  of  the  weakness  of  others." 

"Say,  rather,  that  he  doesn't  agree  with  your 
theories." 

"I  have  no  theories.  You  are  trying  to  excuse 
yourself  in  your  own  heart  by  persuading  yourself 
that  I  have  tried  to  keep  you  from  being  happy.  No, 
my  dear  child.  All  I  wanted  was  that  you  should 
put  worldly  pleasures  in  their  proper  place  in  your 
life.  Alas!  you  have  been  started  down  the  slope, 
and  I  cannot  hold  you  back.  The  world  attracted 
you.  It  has  taken  you — taken  you  utterly — and  I 
see  the  day  coming  when  I  shall  be  nothing  to  you; 
because  the  world  to  which  you  are  giving  yourself 
irrevocably  is  selfish,  bad,  cruel,  cowardly.  It  cor- 
rupts and  perverts  everything  and  fashions  every- 
thing after  its  own  image.  You  will  be  its  victim 
before  you  understand  it.  Then — too  late — you  will 
call  me.  I  shall  be  dead.  To-day  I  could  save  you 
if  you  loved  me  as  you  used  to  love  me — or  as  I  love 
you." 

"In  spite  of  your  bitter  words,  Uncle,  you  know 
that  I  love  you.  Do  you  think  I  haven't  suffered 


THE  STRONGEST  273 

in  resisting  you?  You  are  only  wrong  in  one  thing: 
you  want  to  make  me  happy  in  spite  of  myself,  in 
accordance  with  your  philosophy.  I  am  not  you;  I 
am  I.  Let  me  find  my  happiness  in  my  own  way." 

"Claudia,  the  thing  you  call  your  happiness  is 
irreparable  unhappiness,  the  misery  of  a  wasted  life; 
despair,  when  the  arms  I  open  to  you  to-day  shall  be 
cold  in  death." 

"And  suppose  you're  mistaken?" 

"And  suppose  you  are?  I  know.  I  love  you. 
And  I  see  your  destiny." 

"I  must  make  my  destiny.  I  accept  its  conse- 
quences. Must  I  tell  you  everything?  Well,  I 
don't  love  Maurice  Deschars  the  way  you  mean, 
but  he  is  very  far  from  displeasing  to  me  and  it  will 
hurt  me  to  see  him  go.  I'm  expecting  him  this  very 
night.  Let  him — let  us — both  have  this  final  chance 
and  don't  make  me  say  the  word  which  must  not  be 
said,  yet.  Everything  has  spoken  in  his  favour — he 
himself,  you,  something  within  me — everything  ex- 
cept this  world  that  you  detest,  which  he  detests,  but 
which  speaks  within  me  and  which,  in  spite  of  myself, 
I  know  to  be  the  strongest.  What  would  you  say 
to-morrow  if  you  saw  me  unhappy  because  I  had 
obeyed  you,  and  if  you  had  to  admit  that  it  was  you 
who  had  made  me  unhappy?" 

"All  that  I  ask  is:  'Don't  marry  Montperrier'." 

"But  I'm  logical  in  what  I  do.  If  I  sacrifice  the 
man  I  might  have,  I  must  accept  the  better  one — 


274  THE  STRONGEST 

better  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  And  M.  Montperrier 
is  just  that  man.  We  will  combine  our  forces,  and 
rule." 

"Oh,  Claudia,  can  it  be  you,  you,  speaking  so 
cynically  of  making  a  bargain  in  the  place  of  love?" 

"A  bargain  such  as  you  witness  every  day  and 
which  you  forgive  your  ancestors  and  your  friends. 
You  think  I'm  cynical?  What  else  can  I  do  but  rea- 
son out  my  actions,  which  are  the  same  as  everybody 
else's?  Yes,  I  know,  the  young  girls  of  my  acquaint- 
ance have  a  mother  with  whom  to  discuss  these 
things.  They  can  lower  their  eyes  while  the  traffic 
goes  on  under  the  cover  of  decent  formulas;  they  can 
make  a  novena  for  every  act  of  their  own  will.  But 
I  have  to  think  and  act  for  myself.  Don't  you  real- 
ize that  it  has  hurt  me  thus  to  analyze  myself?  My 
cynicism  is  my  honesty." 

"I  am  frightened  by  your  indifference.  You  are 
no  longer  yourself.  It  is  as  if  Harle  had  given  you  a 
different  soul  with  all  his  success.  If  your  mother 
were^alive  again  at  this  moment  you  would* not  dare 
to  look  into  her  eyes.  Well,  then,  you  must  hear " 

"Uncle,  please  don't  speak  of  the  dead.  It  is  too 
simple.  Listen  to  me,  please.  Go  away  without 
saying  another  word;  leave  me  to  my  own  devices 
until  this  evening.  M.  Deschars  will  tell  you  what 
we  say.  Wait  until  then,  out  of  pity  for  me — for  us. 
I  will  tell  myself  everything  that  you  could  tell  me. 
Wait — wait,  please." 


THE  STRONGEST  275 

And  Puymaufray,  silent,  departed  without  know- 
ing how  or  why — clinging  to  the  hope  that  her  heart 
would  still  rebel. 

The  countess's  words:  "We  must  wait  until  to- 
morrow"— spoken  in  the  voice  of  a  woman  who 
yields — were  like  the  mystic  words  of  the  coronation 
to  Harle.  It  was  the  supreme  achievement. 

A  hundred  times  he  had  been  on  the  point  of 
throwing  himself  at  her  feet  and  reciting  the  things 
he  had  composed  in  his  quiet  hours.  Each  time 
something  in  her  face  had  stopped  him  and  prevented 
his  declaration  of  love.  He  confided  in  Oppert  who 
was  not  surprised,  and  who  gave  him  much  advice — 
in  which  Harle  thought  he  detected  a  touch  of  regret- 
ful jealousy.  It  made  him  happy. 

The  baron's  advice  was  summed  up  in  the  word 
"Patience."  But  the  amorous  captain  of  industry 
was  no  longer  willing  to  wait.  Either  he  was  a  fool, 
or  "We  must  wait  until  to-morrow"  meant:  "I  love 
you."  To  love,  to  be  loved !  So  he  was  to  know  that 
high  felicity  to  which  all  men  aspire  and  which  the 
greatest  of  men  have  often  sung  only  in  order  to  give 
themselves  the  illusion  of  possessing  it.  In  the  even- 
ing of  his  life,  after  the  enormous  labours  which  had 
made  him  the  leader  of  modern  industry,  he  had 
found  an  ideal  woman — the  most  beautiful,  the  most 
intelligent,  the  best  loved — who  understood  and 
loved  him  and  completed  him  miraculously,  who 


276  THE  STRONGEST 

would  make  him  the  happiest,  the  most  enviable,  the 
strongest  of  the  strong. 

That  was  exactly  what  he  was  telling  her  at  the 
moment  when  Puymauf ray  was  miserably  struggling 
against  Claudia's  logic.  And  the  thought  of  making 
the  great  Harle  happy  actually  seemed  to  exalt  the 
countess. 

"Tell  me,  are  all  these  things  true — these  beautiful 
things  ? ' '  she  demanded  in  an  ecstatic  voice.  "  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  a  man  like  you "  She  expressed  her 

thought  with  a  gentle  pressure  of  her  artistic  hand, 
which  Harle  covered  with  loud  kisses.  "Very  well, 
then,  my  friend.  I  have  decided.  Whenever  you 
wish  it.  I  will  be  Mme.  Harle." 

"Say  that  you  will  be  the  Countess  Harle.  I 
couldn't  ask  the  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps  to  step 
down  in  rank.  With  the  help  of  Abbe  Nathaniel 
I  have  been  made  a  papal  count." 

"Really!  You  kept  the  secret  well.  Surely  you 
don't  think  I  care  about  such  things!" 

"No.  I  know  you  too  well.  But  I  dream  of  see- 
'ing  you  always  going  up,  and  I  should  have  suffered 
,to  have  to  start  with  dragging  you  down." 

"No  fear  of  that — with  you." 

"There  are  so  many  fools." 

"Yes,  and  perhaps  we're  mistaken  in  paying  so 
much  attention  to  them.  That's  what  M.  Mont- 
perrier  told  me  when  I  advised  him  to  revive  the  title 
his  people  abandoned  after  the  Revolution.  He's  a 


THE  STRONGEST  277 

viscount,  you  know.  Don't  you  think  he'd  be  a  fine 
husband  for  Claudia?" 

"Viscomte  de  Montperrier,  that  isn't  bad.  But 
wouldn't  his  friends  be  sore?" 

"Not  if  he's  your  son-in-law." 

"  That  chap  is  going  to  make  his  way  in  the  world." 

"He's  made  it  already — or,  nearly." 

"I  don't  like  politicians  much." 

"Don't  say  that.  You  will  like  them  when  you 
are  one.  One  fine  day  you'll  wake  up  a  Senator." 

"Oh,  I  sha'n't  worry!  And  do  you  think  that 
Claudia ?" 

"I  know  that  M.  Montperrier  has  the  greatest 
admiration  for  you.  I  am  pretty  sure  that  this  mar- 
riage would  overwhelm  him  with  happiness." 

"I  should  think  so.    And  Claudia?" 

"Claudia  is  a  sly  little  thing.  I  think  if  you  won't 
say  No " 

"I  will  say  what  you  want  me  to  say,  madame." 

"Always?" 

"Always." 

"What  are  you  smiling  at?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  young  people  who  get  mar- 
ried for  practical  reasons,  as  we  two  did  before,  and 
how  we  two  are  making  a  love  match." 

"What  a  great  child  you  are!  You  make  me 
blush!" 

Harle  was  leaving  the  countess  to  rush  and  tell 
Oppert  his  great  news  when  Puymaufray  was  an- 


278  THE  STRONGEST 

nounced.  He  had  been  walking  aimlessly  in  the 
streets,  stricken — his  brain  on  fire,  delirious  with 
physical  and  moral  pain — invoking  impossible  aid 
and  crying.  "Let  her  marry  this  man,  so  long  as 
she  loves  me." 

What!  had  nothing  risen  in  his  heart  during  this 
cold  torture  of  every  fibre  of  his  being  at  the  hands 
of  the  cruel  child  who  was  his  very  life?  Not  a  start. 
Not  a  tear.  Not  a  tremor.  It  was  irreparable. 
And  he,  the  coward,  dared  not  cry  or  rebel  and  impose 
the  authority  of  her  dead  mother,  commanding  in  her 
name.  Alas!  he  had  feared  the  fatal  blow  of  some 
sarcastic  remark  from  those  bitterly  drawn  lips. 
That  was  why  he  had  fled  at  her  behest,  feeling  that 
death  was  coming.  And  now  he  had  no  other  help 
in  the  world  for  her.  Nanette,  a  faithful  friend,  could 
do  nothing.  Useless,  uprooted,  she  had  seen  all  her 
rustic  diplomacy  in  full  flight  at  the  first  onset  and  was 
caught  flagrantly  loving  where  she  should  have  lied. 
It  was  no  wonder  that  he,  outplayed  and  abused,  was 
odiously  overcome  by  the  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps. 

The  thought  of  that  vile  creature  proposing  salva- 
tion for  Claudia  at  the  price  of  his  infamy  rose  before 
him.  And  now  he  could  ask  himself  what  he  should 
have  done.  He  had  let  his  heart  speak,  just  as 
Nanette  had  done,  and  his  insulting  refusal  had 
marke'd  the  hour  of  his  final  chance.  He  ought  to 
have  pretended  to  accept,  to  have  dissembled,  gained 
time;  and  if  his  hand  had  been  forced  he  could  have 


THE  STRONGEST  279 

paid  with  his  life,  when  once  Claudia  was  safe.  Death 
would  come  now,  too — death,  with  the  thought  of 
Claudia  lost  forever. 

"  Well,  then ! "  he  thought.  "  Let  the  last  sacrifice 
be  made.  It  will  not  be  treason  to  Claire.  I  am 
giving  my  life  for  what  remains  of  her,  since  that  is 
all  I  could  do." 

And  without  a  fixed  project,  without  knowing 
exactly  what  he  was  going  to  say,  he  hastened  to  the 
Comtesse  de  Fourchamps. 

When  his  name  was  announced  she  could  not  sup- 
press a  movement  of  joy.  Chance  had  brought  her 
her  victim. 

"How  glad  I  am  to  see  you,  my  friend,"  she  cried. 
"You  just  met  Harle  going  out,  didn't  you?" 

"No,  madame.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  how  I  was 
touched  the  other  day  by  the  affectionate  offers 
you " 

"I  must  stop  you  right  there,  my  dear  marquis. 
You  must  know  that  my  hand  is  given.  I  am  marry- 
ing Count  Harle  in  a  month.  Well,  you  are  quite 
struck!  Say  something.  Aren't  you  going  to  con- 
gratulate me  and  wish  me  happiness?" 

"A  thousand  pardons,  madame,"  stammered  Puy- 
maufray.  "Forgive  my  surprise.  I  congratulate 
you  sincerely.  And  you  must  believe  me  that  I 
congratulate  Harle  above  all.  I  didn't  know  he  was 
made  a  count." 

"Pull  yourself  together,  I  beg  you.    Otherwise  my 


280  THE  STRONGEST 

feminine  vanity  will  assume  that  you  are  a  little 
vexed.  You  paid  court  to  me  a  little — don't  deny 
it — and  I  can  tell  you  now  that  your  homage  was  not 
altogether  displeasing  to  me." 

' '  You  overwhelm  me,  madame.    I  confess  that 

"Not  another  word.  I  must  not  hear  any  more. 
On  the  recent  occasion,  to  which  you  have  referred, 
when  I  wanted  to  warn  you  that  you  must  be  con- 
tent with  my  friendship,  your  perplexity  was  all  too 
apparent.  I  must  forget  it,  and  I  will.  Who  would 
have  thought  that  you  are  timid,  marquis?  You 
are  sentimental.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  thought  for  a 
moment  that  there  was  some  woman  between  us, 
some  urgent  memory.  Please  don't  look  so  over- 
come. I  know  nothing  and  I  haven't  the  time  to 
guess.  We  are  going  to  be  good  friends,  aren't  we? 
— assalways.  You  know,  after  Harle,  I  have  only 
Claudia  and  you.  I  adore  that  child.  Rely  on  me  to 
assure  her  happiness.  We  will  find  each  other  in 
this  mutual  love.  But  I  see  that  you  are  in  a  hurry 
to  congratulate  your  friend." 

Puymaufray  let  himself  be  pushed  out — dazed, 
shaken  with  dizziness,  on  the  verge  of  madness.  He 
walked  straight  ahead,  hearing  the  sounds  of  the 
street,  trying  to  make  out  what  they  meant,  aston- 
ished that  no  one  had  anything  to  say  to  him.  He 
found  himself  on  a  bench  at  the  Rond-point  des 
Champs-Elysees.  Night  had  come.  A  woman  came 
up  to  him  and  said  something  which  he  did  not  under- 


THE  STRONGEST  281 

stand.  He  rose,  bowed  to  the  ground,  and  asked  her 
to  repeat  what  she  had  said.  This  time,  too,  her 
words  seemed  senseless. 

"I  don't  know,  madame,"  he  answered,  bowing. 
"I  don't  know.  I  beg  you  to  forgive  me." 

She  fled,  frightened,  looking  for  the  absent  police. 
He  fell  back  on  his  seat  and  in  the  void  of  his  thoughts 
began  to  count  the  passing  wagons.  He  said:  "I'll 
go  back  after  the  last  one  has  gone."  The  lamps 
came  and  went  in  the  night.  It  seemed  like  a  game 
to  him.  He  rose  with  an  unconscious  gesture  and  a 
cabman  drew  up.  He  shouted  out  his  address  and 
was  glad  when  he  found  himself  at  home. 

While  Puymaufray  was  wandering  about  like  a 
wounded  animal,  Dominic  was  receiving  the  con- 
gratulation of  his  friend  Oppert. 

"You  see  how  wise  I  was  when  I  told  you  to  be 
patient." 

"Yes,"  answered  Harle,  who  wanted  credit  for  the 
manoeuvre,  "but  I  knew  when  to  smash  through." 

"Oh,  you  are  a  conqueror." 

He  had  now  to  tell  Claudia.  Although  he  foresaw 
no  objections,  Harle  was  uncomfortable. 

"It's  love,"  bethought, "that  causes  this  modesty. 
If  I  were  simply  making  a  marriage  I  could  tell  my 
daughter.  Happily  the  conditions  are  so  perfect 
that  Claudia  will  never  suspect  that  I  love  the  count- 
ess— love  her  with  a  real  love." 


282  THE  STRONGEST 

He  set  down  to  .dinner,  resolved  to  speak  at  the 
dessert.  But  before  he  opened  his  lips  he  looked  at 
his  daughter  and  saw  that  she  was  pale  and  agitated. 
It  was  not  the  time  for  confidences.  He  was  about 
to  question  Claudia  when  Deschars  was  announced. 
Harle  received  him  with  as  much  cordiality  as  his 
absorbing  preoccupation  with  the  countess  allowed. 
After  a  few  turns  in  the  garden  he  asked  to  be  ex- 
cused. 

The  two  young  people  went  back  to  the  bench 
where,  a  few  days  before,  Deschars  had  received  his 
sentence.  A  silence  of  fear  and  anguish  fell  be- 
tween them,  as  of  the  condemned  when  the  execu- 
tioner is  about  to  strike.  Who  knows  what  thoughts 
possess  the  head  which  is  soon  to  fall.  Perhaps  the 
absurd  thought  that  there  is  still  time  for  a  paralytic 
stroke,  for  a  clap  of  thunder,  or  for  the  intervention 
of  a  God  to  change  the  course  of  fate.  And  then 
the  axe  falls  and  the  eternal  mystery  continues  to 
envelop  the  god  who  lures  the  living  with  other  hopes, 
always  new,  always  unfulfilled 

Between  life  and  death  Maurice  waited,  in  the 
sad  delirium  of  hoping  against  hope.  Claudia  was 
overwhelmed  by  the  gravity  of  the  occasion  and  felt 
her  throat  choking  as  though  the  effort  to  speak 
must  end  in  sobs.  She  thought  of  escaping.  If 
Deschars  had  had  courage  to  assail  his  fate,  he  might 
have  released  all  her  pent-up  emotions.  What  a 
future  depended  on  the  moment.  Motionless,  wear- 


THE  STRONGEST  283 

ied,  overcome  by  a  day  of  storms,  he  sat  and  watched 
the  moths  flying  into  the  quivering  candlelight. 
Without  a  movement,  without  a  thought,  he  waited. 

Finally  Claudia  mastered  herself  and  spoke: 

"You  were  very  good  to  come,"  she  said  in  a 
scarcely  audible  voice.  "No  matter  how  it  may 
hurt  us  both,  you  must  hear  me  again.  If  I  were 
wrong  I  should  have  let  you  judge  me  by  our  last 
conversation.  But  I  haven't  the  courage.  I  can- 
not resign  myself  to  live  misunderstood " 

"I  understand  you,  since  I  love  you,"  he  answered. 
"I  understand  you  because  I  know  you  are  the  victim 
of  evil  suggestions  around  you,  because  it  is  your 
father  and  not  yourself  speaking.  I  understand 
you  better  than  you  do.  It  is  because  of  your  weak- 
ness, because  you  don't  trust  your  own  power  that 
you  are  trying  to  find  refuge  in  extremes.  Know- 
ing nothing  of  life,  but  thinking  that  you  know, 
you  are  violently  closing  your  heart  against  your 
wonderful  godfather;  you  are  not  saying  what  you 
really  think,  and  you  are  not  following  the  commands 
of  your  own  heart!" 

"No,"  declared  Claudia.  "You  are  judging  me 
too  highly.  Really  I  am  two  persons,  and  I  cannot 
understand  myself.  There  were  times  when  I  might 
have  given  you  my  hand,  gladly — and  have  been 
happy  in  your  way  of  happiness.  They  opened  up 
to  me  a  different  kind  of  life.  My  millions  are  throw- 
ing me  into  the  arms  of  M.  Montperrier  whom  I  do 


284  THE  STRONGEST 

not  love.  Heaven  knows  how  I  shall  feel  toward  him 
to-morrow.  But  at  his  side  I  shall  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  find  those  gratifications  of  pride  for  which  I 
am  sacrificing  love.  These  aren't  new  things.  Only 
I  am  going  into  the  world  with  open  eyes. 
I  am  not  forced.  I  follow  the  road  which  has  been 
marked  out  for  me,  because  I  haven't  the  power  to 
make  another  way  for  myself.  Despise  me  for  that 
weakness.  Hate  me  for  the  evil  I  am  doing  you. 
But  pity  me  for  the  sufferings  I  undergo." 

"If  you  really  are  suffering,  save  yourself,  I 
beseech  you.  There  is  still  time.  Lift  up  your  head 
and  decide  for  yourself.  Save  yourself,  save  us  both. 
Don't  kill  all  the  happiness  of  your  life  without  even 
the  excuse  of  ignorance." 

"It  is  too  late.  My  fate  is  sealed.  To-morrow  I 
would  fall  back.  If  my  decision  were  not  irrevo- 
cable could  I  have  spoken  to  you  as  I  did  the  other 
day?  Could  I  have  held  out  against  the  kindness 
of  my  uncle  this  morning?  Could  I,  even  in  this 
shameful  hour,  feel  myself  incapable  of  withdrawing  a 
single  one  of  my  wicked  words?  It  is  better  for 
you  and  for  me  to  suffer  this  hour  of  pain  than  to 
torture  each  other  for  a  lifetime."  Then,  after  a 
brief  silence:  "To-morrow,"  she  added,  "I  will  ac- 
quaint M.  Montperrier  with  his  happiness.  I 
wanted  to  see  you  again  first:  I  myself  don't  know 
why.  Perhaps  to  test  myself  finally.  My  tortures 
are  cruel,  I  admit.  But  my  decision  stands.  So 


THE  STRONGEST  205 

go,  without  saying  adieu,  without  looking  back. 
Go  dream  your  dream  over  the  surface  of  the  earth. 
Perhaps  you  will  find  someone  worthy  to  dream  it 
with  you.  You  will  forget.  Perhaps  it  will  be  my 
punishment  to  remember,  some  day." 

He  tried  to  kiss  the  hand  she  held  out  to  him. 
But  Claudia  snatched  it  away,  as  if  burned  by  the 
tears  which  came  before  the  touch  of  his  lips. 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  am  not  worthy  of  your  re- 
grets. Go,  quickly." 

But  when  he  started,  she  stopped  him  with  a  reso- 
lute gesture. 

"I  beg  you,  not  a  word.  Be  generous  to  the  end. 
I  couldn't  change,  and  you  would  only  add  to  my 
sorrow.  Good-bye.  Something  of  us  is  being  de- 
stroyed, and  it  is  I  who  have  willed  it.  Forgive 
me — and  pity  me.  You  see  that  I  do  not  love 
you." 

She  fled  toward  the  salon.  Deschars  stood  vac- 
antly listening  to  her  footsteps  on  the  sand,  waiting 
for  her  to  return,  searching  some  decision  in  himself 
to  redeem  the  final  defeat  he  had  suffered,  and  find- 
ing nothing  but  a  stricken  will.  A  noise  startled 
him.  He  thought  he  heard  Harle,  and  hastened 
toward  the  street.  From  her  window  Claudia  saw 
him  go,  but  no  sign  escaped  her  to  call  back  the 
love  she  was  banishing  from  her  life. 

As  the  gate  shut  heavily  on  her  dead  past  she 
trembled  and  with  drawn  face  ran  to  the  console 


286  THE  STRONGEST 

where  a  secret  was/hidden.  She  pressed  the  spring, 
took  out  a  little  box  of  shell  and  gold,  and  unlocked 
it.  Then  she  undressed  in  feverish  haste. 

Finally,  when  she  was  ready  for  bed,  Claudia  sat 
down  in  the  glow  of  the  lamp,  took  a  tiny  golden 
instrument  from  the  box — a  mysterious  gift  from  the 
countess — filled  it  with  morphine  and,  for  the  first 
time,  pressed  the  needle  in.  ... 

Meantime  Deschars  was  slowly  returning  to  the 
liotel  where  Puymaufray,  in  despair,  awaited  him. 
Hopeless  himself,  Deschars  ungratefully  forgot  his 
friend,  whose  anguish  he  could  not  fathom. 

At  the  door  Nanette  reminded  him. 

"My  dear  Nanette,"  he  said  in  an  indistinct  voice, 
"please  tell  the  marquis  that  I  am  dying  of  weariness 
and  that  I  will  see  him  to-morrow." 

He  need  not  have  wasted  words.  Prom  his  tone 
Nanette  divined  the  disaster. 

"It  went  badly,"  she  told  Puymaufray  when  she 
returned.  "It's  easy  to  surmise  these  things  with 
a  man  like  Maurice.  He'll  see  you  to-morrow.  We 
must  try  to  console  him.  But  we  still  have  your 
child  to  save.  And  you  are  still  asking  and  scolding 
when  you  have  the  right  to  command." 

Thus  quarrelling  with  him  she  distracted  his 
thoughts  from  Maurice's  disaster,  to  summon  his 
forces  for  the  last  attempt  at  salvation. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said,  finally.   "I  have  recoiled 


THE  STRONGEST  287 

too  long  from  the  decisive  words.     This  time,  I 
swear  to  you,  she  will  hear  me." 

Meanwhile,  Deschars  in  his  room  tramped  the 
floor  from  one  wall  to  the  other,  his  face  drawn  with 
anguish,  trying  to  recall  something  of  his  will-power. 
In  the  morning  he  was  resolved,  and  wrote  this  brief 
note: 

To  M.  LE  MARQUIS  DE  PUYMAUFRAY: 

Forgive  me  for  leaving  without  seeing  you  again.  What 
could  I  say,  which  would  not  hurt  you? 

Last  night  I  was  given  these  definite  words:  "I  do  not 
love  you."  It  is  enough. 

I  am  hurrying  to  get  out  of  the  way.  Do  you  continue 
to  love  her,  since  you  have  the  right.  I  am  going  to  take 
up  my  useless  wanderings  at  hazard.  I  will  write  you  one 
day. 

I  greet  you  with  an  ever-increasing  affection. 

MAURICE. 

Two  hours  later  he  was  en  route  for  Marseilles. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  BREAKFAST  next  day  Claudia  and 
Harle  regarded  each  other  in  silence.  He 
was  nervously  seeking  a  chance  to  speak, 
preoccupied  only  with  his  efforts  to  conceal,  under 
the  cloak  of  a  marriage  of  convenience,  the  secret 
intoxication  of  his  marriage  for  love.  Claudia  was 
still  affected  by  the  morphine  and  was  delighting 
in  the  poisonous  charm  of  a  delicious  stupor.  She 
expected  her  father  to  ask  questions  and,  guessing 
that  they  would  be  about  Montperrier,  decided  that 
it  might  be  in  good  taste  to  express  some  leaning  to- 
ward her  future  husband. 

When  he  had  made  sure  of  his  voice  by  a  pre- 
liminary cough,  Harle  began  his  discourse: 

"I  have  a  great  piece  of  news  for  you,  little  one. 
I  have  been  given  the  title  of  count.  The  Holy 
Father  has  graciously  granted  me  this  favour,  which 
I  have  never  sought.  As  you  know,  I  am  far  above 
these  vanities.  I  suppose  they  wanted  to  reward 
me  for  the  services  rendered  to  the  charitable  insti- 
tutions of  Ste.  Radegonde  and  to  assure  the  good  will 
of  the  Universal  Daily  toward  the  good  cause.  I 
couldn't  have  declined  this  honour  without  insulting 

388 


THE  STRONGEST  289 

the  Holy  See.  So  I  am  a  count.  In  view  of  the 
position  I  have  acquired,  it  is  a  bagatelle.  I  need 
no  one  and  everyone  needs  me.  But  look!  One  of 
these  days  you'll  go  away  on  the  arm  of  some  fine 
husband,  when  I  shall  have  to  remain  here  in  this 
palace  alone.  That's  very  sad  to  think  about.  So 
you  won't  be  surprised  to  hear  that  I  have  been  enter- 
taining the  notion  of  providing  myself  with  a  new 
family — always  taking  care  not  to  harm  your  in- 
terest or  offend  your  feelings." 

"Papa,  don't  say  another  word.  You  are  marry- 
ing the  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps." 

"  I  am  delighted  that  you  guessed  it !  That  proves 
that  everything  is  for  the  best  in  the  world,  since, 
without  my  saying  a  word  to  any  one " 

"Oh,  come,  Papa,  you  are  joking.  I  have  eyes. 
You  are  madly  in  love  with  her." 

Harle  blushed  to  his  ears. 

"What's  that  you  say?  The  Comtesse  de  Four- 
champs  is  our  best  friend.  She  wanted  to  watch 
over  your  debut  into  society.  She  has  overwhelmed 
you  with  her  affectionate  care,  with  her  tenderness, 
and  I  have  pledged  her  my  infinite  gratitude  for  this 
inestimable  service.  I  'admire  her.  So  does  all  Paris . 
But  that  doesn't  justify  your  credulity.  I  must 
have  a  woman's  aid  in  the  political  career  on  which 
I  am  embarking.  You  will  be  nearer  the  truth  if 
you  say  that  I  am  ambitious.  You  must  admit  that 
I  couldn't  find  a  happier  assistant " 


290  THE  STRONGEST 

"  Whatever  you  say,  Papa.  A  little  sentimentality 
doesn't  go  badly  at  your  age.  The  countess  has 
been  very  good  to  me.  I  rejoice  in  whatever  feelings 
you  have  which  will  bring  her  closer  to  us.  I  fore- 
saw this  result  of  your  ambitions — as  you  call  them. 
— long  ago.  All  the  conveniences  are  present,  and  if 
your  heart  is  touched  a  little,  I  shall  not  betray  you.'*; 

Harle  lowered  his  eyes,  timid  at  the  very  mention' 
of  the  word  love.  I 

"And,  since  we're  talking  about  such  things "' 

Claudia  resumed. 

She  did  not  have  time  to  finish.  A  gust  of  wind, 
flung  the  door  open  and  in  a  moment  Claudia  was  in 
the  arms  of  the  countess. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  how  happy  I  am!  You  really 
want  me  for  your  mamma?" 

They  broke  into  laughter  shaken  with  restrained 
emotion:  they  embraced  and  they  cried,  with  real 
tears. 

Harle  was  in  raptures.  His  eyes  wet  with  emotion, 
he  drained  the  cup  of  happiness.  He  wanted  to 
speak  but  could  say  nothing  but  "Oh!" — which, 
to  him,  seemed  to  be  sublimely  eloquent.  Finally, 
after  a  speech  which  was  all  pantomime,  he  kissed 
the  little  white  glove  which  fluttered  on  Claudia's 
shoulder,  and  they  all  tried  to  calm  down. 

"You  know,  my  dear  child,"  said  the  countess, 
"that  your  father  and  I  want  nothing  except  to 
make  you  happy." 


THE  STRONGEST  291 

"How  could  I  doubt  that?"  asked  Claudia,  calmly 
watching  the  flood  of  these  excessive  emotions.  "I 
can  see  in  your  eyes  that  you  have  something  to  tell 
me  already." 

"  Clever  little  thing !  You  want  to  make  me  speak 
in  spite  of  myself  and  won't  give  me  the  pleasure  of 
a  surprise.  All  right.  IS  your  father  permits  me  I 
shall  speak  and  claim  my  rights  as  a  mother  from 
this  happy  day." 

"Madame,"  answered  Harle,  solemnly,  "you  may 
say  whatever  you  wish." 

"Very  well,  my  dears.  I  have  just  had  a  visit 
from  M.  Montperrier  who  tells  me  that  the  beauty 
of  Mile.  Claudia  Harte " 

"Spare  us  the  prologue,  please,"  interposed 
Claudia.  "I  made  my  decision  yesterday  and"! 
see  that  we  are  going  to  start  our  family  off  in  full 
agreement.  What  have  you  to  say,  father?" 

"Oh,  it's  very  simple.  My  opinion  is  the  same 
as  the  countess's." 

"Well,  my  opinion  is  that  I  am  struck  with  the 
advantages  of  this  union  if  the  inclinations  of  our 
daughter " 

"Assume  that  the  feeling  of  your  daughter  are 
all  that  you  can  wish." 

"I  am  delighted,"  answered  the  countess.  "The 
old  nobility  is  played  out.  I  can  say  that  without 
danger.  A  man  like  your  father  is  destined  by  his 
genius  to  set  great  modern  activities  astir.  Poli- 


292  THE  STRONGEST 

tics  must  have  him.  Look  among  the  careers  of  the 
present-day  politicians  and  find  one  who  is  richer 
in  acquirements  or  more  happy  in  his  hopes  than 
Montperrier.  What  could  we  wish  for  you,  child, 
greater  than  the  noble  joy  of  power,  which  used  to 
be  the  prerogative  of  royalty  and  which  is  now 
logically  reserved  for 

"The  strongest,"  interjected  Harle. 

"That  is  too  modest,"  observed  the  countess. 
"Say,  rather:  'the  most  deserving'." 

"Same  thing.    Well,  child,  what  do  you  say?" 

"Nothing.     In  principle,  I  approve." 

"I  will  only  remark,"  Harle  continued,  "that  as 
M.  Montperrier  hasn't  a  penny  we  must  grant  him 
nothing  in  the  settlement.  He  must  be  held  by  his 
wife.  Otherwise  I  know  what  would  happen." 

"I  think  that  is  an  absolutely  indispensable  con- 
dition," said  Claudia. 

"M.  Montperrier,"  the  countess  declared,  gravely, 
"is  the  most  unselfish  man  in  the  world.  He  might 
accept.  He  would  never  ask." 

"He  will  have  nothing,"  Harle  concluded.  His 
habitual  decisiveness  asserted  itself  in  this  con- 
nection. 

"Before  I  give  my  last  word  I  want  a  five-minute 
interview  with  M.  Montperrier,"  suggested  Claudia. 

"Just  as  you  wish,  little  one.  *  I  approve.  There's 
always  something  to  say." 

"Why,  it's  splendid,"  cried  the  countess,  with  a 


THE  STRONGEST  293 

burst  of  laughter.  "I  have  just  left  M.  Montperrier 
downstairs  in  my  carriage." 

A  few  minutes  later  Etienne  Montperrier  was 
ushered  into  the  salon  and  was  met  by  the  family. 

"Ah!  so  it's  you,  you  sly  one,  who  dares  ask  for 
the  hand  of  my  child,"  shouted  Harle,  happily. 
"Well,  I  love  audacity.  But  I  have  nothing  to 
say;  Claudia  is  mistress  of  herself.  She  will  decide, 
and  I  am  willing  to  let  you  plead  your  cause.  Be 
eloquent.  Good  luck  to  the  young." 

On  that,  Harle  went  off  with  the  countess,  leaving 
the  two  lovers  face  to  face. 

"Mademoiselle,"  began  Montperrier,  very  pale, 
"  my  fate  is  in  your  hands.  I  can  confess  to  you  now 
that,  apart  from  the  questions  of  advantages — which 
we  cannot  pretend  to  ignore  without  hypocrisy — 
my  admiration  for  your  character  and — may  I 
add? — the  effect  of  your  beauty  on  me,  prevent  me 
from  speaking  as  I  should  speak." 

"I  am  very  glad  of  that,  monsieur.  For  it  seems 
to  me  that  we  have  room  just  now  only  for  the  elo- 
quence of  facts." 

"However,  you  must  believe  that  love " 

"Quite.  We  have  a  lifetime  in  which  to  try  to 
agree  on  that  subject.  I  wanted  this  talk  in  order 
to  make  clear  my  conditions.  We  must  not  try  to 
deceive  each  other.  You  love  me,  which  is  proper 
enough,  and  you  do  not  displease  me.  When  every- 
thing else  is  settled,  that  is  enough.  I  would  say 


294  THE  STRONGEST 

that  I  propose  to  remain  mistress  of  myself  if  thafc 
be  compatible  with  marriage.  At  the  least  I  have 
resolved  to  protect  everything  I  can  from  the  pos- 
sibility of  eventual  tyranny.  That  is  why  I  wanted 
you  to  hear  from  my  own  lips,  to-day,  that  my  duties 
are  to  be  measured  exactly  by  yours.  My  father 
intends  to  grant  you  nothing  in  the  settlement;  and 
if  he  didn't  want  that,  I  would." 

"I  have  given  so  many  proofs  of  disinterested " 

"I  couldn't  doubt  them.  I  am  speaking  this 
way  now,  regretfully,  in  order  to  inform  you  fully  of 
the  state  of  my  feelings,  to  which  your  resolutions 
for  the  future  must  bow." 

"And  I  thank  you  for  it,  mademoiselle.  Since 
we  are  speaking  with  equal  frankness,  would  you 
not  let  me  say  that  it  might  be  advisable,  in  our  com- 
mon interest,  to  keep  up  the  social  authority  nec- 
essary in  my  position — for  me  to  be  so  placed  that  I 
would  be  protected  against  malicious  remarks?" 

"Surely  you  don't  think  so!  You  would  be  giving 
yourself  over  to  all  sorts  of  slanders  that  way.  They 
would  say  that  we  had  made  a  money  bargain.  No. 
You  see  in  me  a  will  not  inferior  to  your  own.  That 
is  a  guaranty  of  the  future.  Have  confidence  in  me. 
You  have  my  complete  social  fidelity,  as  I  have 
yours.  That  answers  for  everything.  But  I  con- 
sent to  let  you  try  to  make  people  love  you,  and  I 
hope  you  want  to  do  that." 

"My  only  desire  is  to  please  you  in  everything." 


THE  STRONGEST  295 

"  Well,  then,  our  fate  is  decided.  If  necessary  I  will 
remind  you  of  the  conditions  of  our  agreement." 

"It  will  not  be  necessary.  I  will  keep  the  details 
fresh  in  my  memory." 

He  advanced  toward  her  with  outstretched  hand. 
She  stopped  him  with  a  gesture  and,  putting  aside 
the  portiere,  summoned  her  father. 

Then,  under  the  tender  eyes  of  the  Comtesse  de 
Fourchamps  and  the  flamboyant  ardour  of  M. 
Harle,  burning  with  love,  the  two  young  people 
coldly  sealed  their  pact  with  a  gesture  of  the  utmost 
propriety,  each  thinking  of  the  ingenious  calculation, 
the  triumph  of  their  day,  to  be  paid  with  avenging 
to-morrows. 

"I  will  hold  him,"  Claudia  said  to  herself.  "He 
will  be  in  my  hands." 

"I  will  have  my  revenge,"  thought  Montperrier, 
dully  annoyed. 

"Be  happy,  my  children,"  exclaimed  Harle,  rav- 
ished by  the  eyes  of  the  countess. 

Puymaufray  read  Deschars's  note  and  without  a 
word  handed  it  to  Nanette.  She  deciphered  it, 
slowly.  After  a  silence  she  said: 

"  He  did  the  right  think  by  going  away.  He  didn't 
have  the  strength  for  this  game.  All  our  misfor- 
tune comes  from  counting  on  him,  while  he  was 
expecting  us  to  give  him  Claudia.  You  see,  M'sieur 
Henri,  that  all  the  young  people  of  to-day,  even  when 


296  THE  STRONGEST 

they  are  good,  are  good  for  nothing.  That's  all 
you  can  say." 

"  And  I  ?    I  haven't  much  to  be  proud  of ! " 

"Because  you  sit  here  with  your  arms  folded 
watching  other  people  strike  while  the  iron  is  hot. 
But  this  time  you  have  promised  me  to  speak  out  the 
way  you  should.  Otherwise,  everything  is  over." 

"Claudia  will  hear  me.     I  have  promised." 

Puymaufray  rang  at  the  door  of  Harle's  house 
precisely  at  the  moment  when  Claudia,  her  hand  in 
Montperrier's,  was  looking  with  an  ironic  stare  at 
the  countess,  timid  and  modest,  and  at  her  father, 
with  his  burning  eyes. 

When  she  heard  Henri's  name,  Claudia  cried  out 
and  disappeared. 

"Show  M.  le  marquis  into  my  study,"  growled 
Harle,  furious  at  the  encounter. 

"I'll  take  M.  Montperrier  with  me,"  said  the 
countess.  "It  isn't  desirable  that  the  marquis 
should  see  me.  He  had,  if  I'm  not  mistaken,  plans 
for  Claudia  and  for  someone  else,  which  do  not 
agree  with  what  has  come  to  pass.  Let  us  not  annoy 
him  with  our  happiness." 

"I  will  come  to  see  you  presently,"  said  Harle. 

"Good.    I  will  wait  for  you." 

The  moment  the  carriage  passed  through  the  gate 
the  countess  turned  to  Montperrier. 

"Well?"  she  demanded,  triumphantly. 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am,"  answered 


THE  STRONGEST  297 

Montperrier.  "But  it  seems  I  shall  have  the  hu- 
miliation of  depending  upon  my  wife." 

"Claudia  is  insuring  herself  against  human  in- 
gratitude. Don't  go  around  talking  of  these  dif- 
ficulties. Remember  that  I  will  always  be  your 
friend." 

At  bottom  the  countess  was  not  at  all  displeased 
to  hold  the  reins  over  young  Montperrier,  who 
would,  undoubtedly,  have  to  feel  the  bit  some  day. 
He  saw  through  her  attitude  and — forgetful  of  ser- 
vices rendered — grew  enraged. 

Meanwhile  Harle,  touched  to  the  quick  by  the 
countess's  allusion  to  Puymaufray's  rivalry,  greeted 
him  brusquely  and  took  up  a  telegram,  which  a  ser- 
vant brought  in  at  the  same  moment.  He  opened 
it,  hoping  to  find  in  it  an  excuse  for  his  bad  humour — • 
a  hope  that  was  more  than  gratified. 

"This  is  too  much!"  he  shouted,  with  an  evil 
look.  "  Ste.  Radegonde  is  out  on  strike.  For  a  month 
my  engineer  has  been  talking  about  'discontent'  and 
'conferences.'  He  seemed  to  think  that  something 
had  to  be  done.  I  put  it  off :  I  had  so  many  things 
to  keep  me  busy  here.  And  now  it's  over.  I  will 
yield  nothing." 

"I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  that,"  said  Puy- 
maufray.  "I  have  just  had  a  letter  from  Jean 
Quete.  He  says  that  the  new  machines  keep  the 
men  much  closer  to  the  job  all  the  time  and  tire  them 
out  much  more  quickly.  And  he  says  that  as  the 


298  THE  STRONGEST 

output  is  so  much,  greater  they  have  been  asking 
for  a  rise  in  wages  but  in  vain." 

"I  didn't  refuse.  I  postponed  it.  It  isn't  so 
startling  that  I  shouldn't  be  in  a  hurry  to  diminish 
my  profits." 

"It  seems  that  your  men  were  more  in  a  hurry  to 
get  higher  wages  for  more  work.  They  got  tired  of 
waiting,  and  now  they're  striking." 

"  Yes.  But  they've  chosen  the  worst  possible  way. 
Now  I  can't  give  in.  I  should  seem  to  be  in  the 
wrong.  To-morrow  they  will  ask  for  Heaven  knows 
what.  They  must  go  back  first!" 

"But  you  yourself  admit  that  you  ought  to  have 
settled  the  question  sooner.  Surely  you  don't  want 
to  drive  these  people  mad  simply  out  of  obstinacy?" 

" Mad?  I'd  like  to  see  that !  I  tell  you  they  must 
go  back  first!  Let  them  resume  work;  then  I'll 


see." 


"Where's  Claudia?" 

"She's  gone  out.  We're  going  to  the  opera  to- 
night with  the  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps  and  M. 
Montperrier.  If  you  care  to  join  us " 

"No.  Will  you  tell  Claudia  that  I  will  see  her 
to-morrow?" 

"Surely.  She'll  expect  you  after  lunch.  I'm 
going  down  to  the  Cours  Beauvau.  I  must  see  the 
Minister  of  the  Interior  at  once  to  put  an  end  to  my 
strike.  Damn  those  people!  I'm  going  to  sack  the 
leaders." 


THE  STRONGEST  299 

He  dismissed  Puymaufray  and,  writing  a  burning 
note  to  the  countess,  hastened  down  to  the  ministry. 

Puymaufray  stopped  at  the  first  telegraph  office 
and  wired  Jean  Quete: 

Give  in.    Everything  will  be  arranged — PUYMAUFRAY. 

Then — burdened  with  himself,  not  knowing  where 
to  go,  he  wandered  toward  the  Bois  in  the  vague 
hope  of  finding  Claudia.  He  took  the  Avenue  de  la 
Grande  Armee,  to  avoid  bores,  and  was  approaching 
the  pavilion  d'  Armenonville  when  the  sight  of  a 
crowd  diverted  him. 

He  walked  along,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 
Without  knowing  how  he  got  there,  he  found  him- 
self between  the  little  lake  and  the  pine  trees  near 
Neuilly.  Suddenly  a  familiar  voice  made  him  raise 
his  head.  Prince  de  Luques  and  M61anie  were  two 
paces  ahead  of  him,  engaged  in  an  intimate  conver- 
sation. He  tried  to  escape,  but  at  the  sound  of  his 
steps  the  prince  had  turned. 

"Ha,  it's  you,"  he  cried.  "What  are  you  doing 
here?" 

"  The  same  as  you.  I'm  taking  a  walk,"  answered 
Henri,  saluting  the  young  woman. 

"My  dear  child,  I  present  to  you  my  old  friend, 
M.  le  Marquis  de  Puymaufray!" 

"Monsieur,  I  am  very  happy  to  know  you,"  said 
Melanie.  "I  have  often  heard  about  you.  Pardon 
me,  you  see  me  somewhat  nervous.  I  have  been 


300  THE  STRONGEST 

quarrelling  with  the  prince.     Do  me  the  favour  of 
lecturing  him." 

"Come,  come,  dear.    What  are  you  saying?" 

"I  am  simply  calling  the  Marquis  de  Puymaufray 
to  my  assistance.  I  want  him  to  judge  between  us." 

"Silence!"  exclaimed  the  prince,  out  of  patience. 

"No,  no.  You  shall  not  stop  me  from  talking." 
Then,  to  Puymaufray:  "The  prince  launched  me, 
didn't  he?  Everybody  in  Paris  knows  that.  He 
did  me  two  great  favours.  He  showed  me  that  virtue 
was  out  of  place  for  a  pretty  girl  and  offered  me  his 
services.  Well,  I  accepted;  and  I  may  tell  you  that 
the  arrangement  was  purely  platonic  on  both  sides. 
That  was  what  decided  me  on  my  course:  the  origi- 
nality of  the  love  of  art." 

The  prince  was  cutting  a  deplorable  figure. 

"Only,"  continued  Melanie,  "right  after  the  visit 
to  Morgan,  which  was  the  prince's  idea — and  for 
which  I  thank  him  because  it  started  me  off  at  the 
top,  didn't  it? — he  began  to  try  to  play  the  lover! 
And,  what's  more  ridiculous  still,  he  became  jealous. 
Really  it  is  too  funny.  I  laughed  a  whole  day.  And 
now  he  hounds  me;  he  compromises  me;  he  follows 
me — even  into  this  secluded  spot — because  he  saw 
me  exchange  a  couple  of  words  with  M.  Montperrier. 
I  refused  to  tell  him  what  we  said  and  why  I  appeared 
so  satisfied.  I  am  discreet,  that's  all." 

Turning  to  the  prince  she  added:  "But  now  I  have 
no  further  need  to  be  secretive,  since  M.  le  Marquis 


THE  STRONGEST  301 

de  Puymaufray  is  going  to  tell  you  the  news  himself. 
M.  Montperrier  announced  to  me  his  engagement  to 
M.  le  marquis's  ward." 

"My  ward?"  cried  Henri,  growing  pale. 

"Your  ward,  or  your  godchild;  which  is  it?"  asked 
Melanie.  "Mile.  Claudia  Harle,  anyhow.  You 
brought  her  up,  didn't  you?  I  want  to  be  one  of  the 
first  to  congratulate  you.  They  say  that  Mile. 
Harle  has  millions.  Take  my  word  for  it  that  M. 
Montperrier  is  worthy  of  her." 

Without  a  word  Puymaufray  saluted  hastily  and 
fled,  like  a  hunted  beast.  Until  night  he  walked, 
incapable  of  concentrated  thought.  Then  a  reaction 
set  in  and  he  went  home  boiling  with  rage.  Nanette 
saw  him  pass  but  she  could  not  see  his  face,  and  all 
night  long  she  watched  his  locked  door,  thinking 
that  whatever  had  happened,  a  decision  would  be 
made  on  the  morrow. 

In  the  morning  a  telegram  came  from  Jean  Quete. 
It  ran : 

They  would  not  believe  me.  They  have  waited  too 
long.  Besides,  arrival  of  troops  caused  anger.  Uproar 
last  night.  Windows  broken,  arrests.  Cannot  hold  back 
any  longer. 

"I  will  answer  it  to-night,"  said  Henri,  giving  the 
blue  slip  to  Nanette. 

He  looked  at  the  clock.     All  night  long,  in  his  dis- 


302  THE  STRONGEST 

tress,  lie  had  listened  to  the  ticking  of  the  minutes, 
marking  the  last  halt  before  the  final  battle.  In  vain 
had  he  tried  to  hurry  them.  The  chain  of  minutes 
dragged  by  him  wearily.  All  his  life  passed  before 
him  in  review:  his  wildly  wasted  youth,  his  love,  the 
lightning  flash  of  happiness,  and  the  thunderclap  that 
destroyed  his  superhuman  bliss;  and  then  the  vision 
of  Claire,  living  again  in  the  eyes  of  their  daughter, 
the  hope  renewed  .  .  .  to  be  crushed  in  despair. 
He  had  loved  the  ungrateful  child  too  well.  He  had 
been  afraid  to  dare  her  to  her  face.  But  what  now? 
Claudia,  a  rebel  against  the  soul  of  Claire,  was  Clau- 
dia no  more.  He  had  no  fear  of  speaking  now,  since 
he  expected  nothing  but  death. 

They  were  just  finishing  lunch  when  Henri  reached 
Harle's  house.  Outwardly  he  seemed  calm.  But 
the  contracted  brows,  the  fixed  eye,  and  the  tight- 
ened mouth  bespoke  immovable  resolve.  Harle,  very 
sombre,  entered  with  Claudia. 

"Well,  you're  satisfied  now,  I  suppose,"  exclaimed 
Harle — "now  that  your  theories  are  in  action.  The 
strikers  have  tried  to  destroy  Ste.  Radegonde.  I 
don't  know  what  would  have  happened  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  troops." 

"I  have  just  received  a  wire  saying  that  there 
Were  only  some  windows  smashed.  That  isn't 


serious." 


"So  you're  on  the  side  of  Revolution.    I  should 
have  known  that.'*  • 


THE  STRONGEST  303 

"Don't  talk  nonsense.  You  know  how  it  will 
end." 

"Yes,  I  know.  Everybody  is  going  back  to  work, 
and  quickly.  I  say  so.  The  minister  gave  me  as- 
surances. The  incredible  thing  is  that  they  hesitated 
at  first  to  send  troops.  Montperrier  convinced  them 
quickly.  Ha!  their  daring  me!  They'll  see.  They'll 
know  whom  they're  dealing  with.  Yesterday  I 
would  have  made  concessions  if  they  had  thrown 
themselves  on  my  generosity.  To-day:  nothing. 
And  let  them  not  ask.  I'll  lower  their  wages." 

"Really,  you  are  mad!  Yesterday  you  admitted 
that  you  were  wrong  because  you  didn't  accept  the 
agreement  they  proposed.  And  to-day,  because  you 
are  sure  of  yourself  with  the  troops  there,  you  are 
going  to  maintain  a  regime  which  you  yourself  have 
condemned." 

"Do  you  think  it's  for  a  few  francs?" 

"After  all,  you  do  not  despise  them — those  few 
francs — although  you  admit  they  aren't  yours  by 
right." 

"It  isn't  I.  You  don't  understand.  Revolution 
is  breaking  out  and  we  must  keep  it  under.  What 
is  that  to  you? — you  who  have  never  worked  and 
who  find  it  easy  to  criticize  those  that  have.  I  rep- 
resent the  necessary  order.  All  of  society  is  inter- 
ested in  my  victory  over  the  strikers.  That  is  why 
the  Government  put  the  army  at  my  disposal.  What ! 
At  the  very  moment  when  I  am  starting  a  great  enter- 


304  THE  STRONGEST 

prise  which  consolidates  the  existing  order,  basing 
it  on  the  tacit  consent  of  the  masses,  shall  I  see  my 
authority  and  my  prestige  compromised  because  a 
few  hotheads " 

"Really,  you  couldn't  stand  that,"  interjected 
Claudia  in  a  provoking  voice. 

"You,  too!"  exclaimed  Puymaufray.  (Claudia's 
eyes  dropped,  rebelliously.)  "That  you  should  have 
come  to  this!" 

"Yes;  she,  too,"  shouted  Harle,  violently.  "And 
all  sensible  people,  who  defend  what  they  have  and 
so  defend  everybody's  possessions.  Claudia  doesn't 
come  up  to  the  heights  of  my  views,  perhaps,  but  she 
understands  that  it  is  a  fight  for  her  side  against  a 
crowd  of  malefactors.  My  greatness — since  we  must 
speak  of  it — is  hers,  obviously.  There  would  be 
no  need  for  me  to  remind  you  of  it  if  you  really  loved 
her  as  you  pretend.  By  thirty  years  of  work  I  have 
brought  her  to  the  top  of  the  social  ladder.  And 
to-morrow  the  bandits  will  have  the  better  of  me!" 

"No,"  said  Claudia,  with  a  shake  of  her  head. 
"They  won't.  I  will  be  as  good  to  the  unfortunate 
as  you  want,  but  father  is  right  and  I  am  on  his  side. 
We  must  be  the  masters." 

"Yes,  the  masters," hissed  Harle,  savagely.  "I'll 
smash  those  brawlers;  I'll  break  'em  up.  And  if  they 
think  they'll  escape  by  their  secret  plans,  I'll  show 
them  how  to  lie." 

Puymaufray  was  just  about  to  answer,  contemptu- 


THE  STRONGEST  305 

ously,  when  the  door  opened.  An  engineer  from 
Ste.  Radegonde  was  asking  to  see  Harle. 

"Show  him  in,"  Harl6  commanded. 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  arrival,  "there  is  bad  news 
at  the  ministry.  The  situation  is  worse  this  morn- 
ing. A  mob  formed,  shouting.  Women  got  mixed 
up  in  it.  They  began  to  make  threats.  The  Secre- 
tary of  the  Ministry  is  following  me.  He  will  tell 
you  the  instructions  sent  down  by  the  Ministry  of 
War." 

"Very  well.  I'll  tell  him  what  to  do,"  growled 
Harle.  "There  are  no  instructions.  They  have  to 
act.  Otherwise  we  shall  be  the  laughing  stock  of 
Paris  to-morrow.  My  power  is  crumbling  away  at 
the  very  moment  of  my  triumph.  My  envious  ene- 
mies will  let  loose  all  their  fury  against  me.  We  shall 
be  flung  aside.  My  daughter,  for  whom  I  was  pre- 
paring a  regal  life — and  I " 

"Father,"  gasped  Claudia,  grown  suddenly  pale, 
"you  must  see  the  minister  and  speak  to  him  and 
make  him  do  his  duty.  He  must  protect  us.  We 
must  defend  ourselves.  You  can't  let  Ste.  Radegonde 
be  ransacked  by  savages.  If  the  revolt  won  there 
it  would  be  the  end  of  everything.  It's  impossible. 
The  soldiers  won't  let  themselves  be  insulted.  They 
have  their  weapons " 

Henri  sprang  toward  her. 

"Say  that  again!"  he  shouted,  trembling  with 
anger.  "Say  that  again!" 


306  THE  STRONGEST 

She  was  silent. 

Harle — preoccupied  with  his  decisions — had  taken 
the  caller  into  his  study. 

Claudia  and  Henri  were  left  alone  for  the  merciless 
duel,  and  their  eyes  flashed  like  blades  crossing  in 
mid-air.  Claudia  was  on  the  defensive,  and  she 
faced  Henri's  attack  without  flinching. 

"So  you,  you  have  spoken  that  way,"  he  said, 
approaching  her.  "You,  my  daughter!" 

"Yes;  I,  your  0od-daughter,"  corrected  Claudia, 
coldly. 

"Miserable  child;  must  men  be  killed  for  you  now? 
Men  who  may  be  wrong  but  who  may  have  reasons 
for  being  wrong.  .  .  .  And  you  give  the  word  to 
fire!" 

"A  word  escaped  me.  I  don't  think  it  has  killed 
any  one." 

"Don't  you?  I  got  the  blow  here,  in  my  heart; 
and  the  wound  will  never  close.  What  do  you  care  in 
your  new  life?  Haven't  you  reduced  me  to  the  point 
where  I  must  learn  of  your  engagement  from  M61anie, 
whom  I  found  quarrelling  with  Prince  de  Luques 
about  M.  Montperrier  himself?" 

"In  Paris  you  can't  keep  a  secret.  I  didn't  see 
you  yesterday." 

"Enough  of  lies.  To-day  we  must  have  the  truth 
between  us.  I  wanted  to  save  you.  I  couldn't. 
It  is  probably  my  fault.  The  others  were  too  strong 
for  me.  I  needed  your  help.  Now  it  is  ended. 


THE  STRONGEST  307 

But  you  must  know  what  you  are  going  to  lose.  I 
loved  you.  I  love  you  enough  now  not  to  curse  you 
when  you  strike  the  dagger  into  me.  I  have  loved 
you  from  the  day  you  were  born.  I  loved  you  for 
yourself.  I  loved  you  for  your  mother.  Do  not 
say  a  word.  I  do  not  want  you  to  touch  that  mem- 
ory of  mine.  It  wasn't  a  *kind  of  love'  that  I  gave 
you.  It  was  love  itself.  I  followed  your  foot- 
steps  " 

"You  were  always  reproaching  me  for  it, 
Uncle " 

"There  was  room  for  reproaches!  I  followed 
you — do  you  hear? — hour  by  hour.  I  saw  your  soul 
begin  to  grow,  and  my  only  desire  was  that  you 
should  be  your  mother  over  again;  your  mother  whom 
you  are  going  to  banish  forever.  Nothing  stopped 
me;  nothing  tired  me.  I  could  not  say  *I  want'  be- 
cause I  had  no  law  but  love  on  my  side.  I  spoke. 
What  more  could  I  have  done?  I  couldn't  set  up 
as  an  example.  My  life  had  been  a  failure.  I  was 
to  find  my  punishment  in  you.  I  wasted  my  life  and 
yet  your  mother  was  able  to  turn  it  into  a  new  path. 
How  easy  it  seemed  to  open  your  heart  to  the 
noble  ideals  which  should  have  been  your  heritage. 
That  was  what  I  tried  to  do.  In  order  to  be 
loved,  I  assumed  that  you  loved  and  for  twenty 
years  I  kept  up  the  pretence.  And  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, in  spite  of  yourself,  I  remained  faithful  to 
you." 


308  THE  STRONGEST 

"  But,  Uncle,  why  did  you  burden  yourself  ?  Surely 
this  was  my  father's  duty." 

"And  your  mother's,  too.  I  received  from  her  the 
duty  of  love  which,  to-day,  I  must  fulfil." 

"You  have  told  me  this  a  hundred  times.  But 
you  spoke  of  my  mother;  it  was  my  father  who  made 
me  happy." 

"I  wanted  you  to  be  happy  through  love,  your 
father  wanted  you  to  be  happy  by  ruling  over  others. 
I  told  you  to  love.  The  world  tempted  you  with 
selfishness  and  your  father  was  an  accomplice.  The 
world  and  your  father  were  the  strongest." 

"Why  don't  you  say  that  you  wanted  to  make  me 
like  yourself — with  good  intentions?  I  admit.  Weak 
as  I  was,  I  tried  to  obey  you.  I  couldn't.  All  you 
did  was  to  make  it  harder  for  me  to  go  my  way,  to 
follow  my  father.  My  sufferings  and  my  tears  are 
due  to  you.  I  owe  to  my  father  nothing  but  happi- 
ness— my  father  whom  you  are  accusing  behind  his 
back." 

"Silence!  You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying. 
With  a  word  I  could  bring  down  your  castle  in  the  air. 
I  came  here  to  compel  you  to  obey,  to  command  in 
the  name  of  your  mother,  when  your  abominable 
words " 

"I  did  not  know  her.  No  one  has  the  right  to  the 
name  now  except  my  father's  wife." 

Puymaufray  staggered  under  the  blow,  his  hands 
clutching  the  air. 


THE  STRONGEST  309 

"The  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps  your  mother  I" 
he  cried.  "You!  You  dare  to  disown  her!  For 

your  blasphemy  may  you No!  I  will  not  say 

it.  Her  voice!  Her  voice!" 

Suddenly,  roughly,  he  pointed  at  Claudia  and  said: 

"You  have  willed  it.    The  tomb  is  going  to  open." 

And  without  knowing  what  he  was  going  to  do,  he 
went  to  Harle's  study.  Harle  was  about  to  go  out. 

"Wait!"  said  Puymaufray,  with  authority.  "I 
must  speak  to  you." 

Harle,  anxious  to  get  away,  returned  to  the  study 
without  a  word. 

"I  have  just  said  good-bye  to  Claudia,"  Henri 
began.  "'Good-bye,'  you  understand?" 

Dominic  nodded.     "Well?"  he  queried. 

"Well?  Nothing.  I  wanted  to  talk  to  her  about 
her  mother,  who,  on  the  threshold  of  death,  asked  me 
to  watch  over  her.  You  were  absent  then " 

"Yes.  But  I  am  here  now,  and  we  do  not  need 
any  help  to  get  along.  As  for  Claudia's  mother, 
she  was  mad." 

At  the  word,  Puymaufray  strode  forward,  furi- 
ously. 

"I  forbid  you  to  insult  Claire,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  'Claire?' "  cried  Dominic,  stupefied.  "What  do 
you  say?  Who  gives  you  the  right ?" 

"I  say  that  I  forbid  you  to  insult  Claire,"  repeated 
Puymaufray,  menacingly.  "Listen.  The  supreme 


310  THE  STRONGEST 

moment  has  come.  I  despise  you  and  you  hate  me. 
But  I  know  that  there  are  some  things  so  low  that 
you  would  not  do  them.  Will  you  say,  for  me, 
whether  you  think  I  am  capable  of  dishonouring  my 
own  name  by  a  lie,  the  most  odious  of  lies?" 

"No,"  said  the  other,  calming  himself  with  an 
effort.'  "Go  on.  Speak.  I  will  believe  you.5* 

"  Then  let  the  blow  fall.    Claudia  is  my  daughter !" 

Harle  felt  a  cloud  settle  before  his  eyes.  Then, 
suddenly  freed,  he  gasped:  "What  are  you  saying? 
You  are  mad.  You  are  insulting  the  dead.  You 
are  a  coward.  You  lie!" 

Henri  stood  still,  only  raising  his  hand  to  call 
Heaven  to  testify.  "On  my  name  and  on  my  honour, 
by  all  that  I  respect  and  all  that  I  believe  in,  I  swear 
that  Claudia  is  my  daughter — the  child  born  of  me, 
Henri  de  Puymaufray,  and  of  Claire  Mornand,  whom 
you  bought  as  a  business  speculation  and  who  was 
my  wife  by  the  law  of  Love." 

Harle  fell  into  a  chair,  overcome.  Hiding  his  head 
in  his  hands  he  remained  silent,  convulsed  with  fury. 
To  think  that  he  had  been  fooled,  and  precisely 
by  those  whom  he  despised!  He,  the  strong  man, 
mocked  by  the  weak!  His  anger,  at  bottom,  rose 
against  himself. 

Henri — livid  of  face  and  stiff,  with  arms  folded — 
waited.  Finally  the  explosion  came.  The  blood 
had  rushed  to  Harle  face;  his  eyes  were  starting  from 
their  sockets,  as  he  rose  in  a  fit  of  rage: 


THE  STRONGEST  311 

"And  why  do  you  tell  me  that  now?  Because  it 
is  too  late  for  me  to  be  revenged!  Twenty  years  of 
falsehood  and  then  one  word  of  truth  when  you  are 
sure  of  escaping  punishment!  What  made  you 
speak?  Tell  me  if  you  dare !  Ah!  the  marriage  with 
Montperrier.  You  don't  approve,  eh?  It's  not  the 
sort  of  thing  you  want.  So  you  say  to  yourself, 
'Since  she  will  not  yield,  I  will  take  her  back  and 
force  her  to  obey.'  Well? — and  what  about  my 
millions?  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  them, 
now?  Or  rather  what  would  you  have  done  if  you 
hadn't  thought  of  this  new  idea?  You  didn't  think 
of  them,  did  you?  You  are  so  unselfish!  However, 
even  if  my  wife  was  yours — as  you  have  just  ex- 
plained— my  money  is  my  own!  I  won  it  by  my 
work!  I  didn't  steal  it  from  you!  So  why  do  you 
want  to  steal  it  from  me?" 

"That  is  one  insult  which  does  not  touch  me. 
Events  have  taken  us  both  by  surprise!  I  had  to 
choose  between  killing  the  mother  and  accepting  a 
lie.  I  took  the  risk." 

"It  isn't  true.  You  wanted  to  steal  my  money 
for  your  daughter.  And  you  made  her  an  accomplice 
in  your  infamy!  Talk  to  me  about  the  puritans 
who  disapprove  of  us!  How  do  you  dare  to  loot 
into  my  face?" 

"Because  my  conscience  is  clear." 

"Your  conscience?  You  dare  to  speak  the  word 
when  I  find  you  robbing  my  safe?  If  Claudia  had 


312  THE  STRONGEST 

been  led  away  by  your  hypocrisy  and  had  married 
Deschars  you  would  have  let  her  use  my  money,  you 
thief— you  thief!" 

His  voice  trembled  with  fury.  The  thought  of  his 
money  being  stolen  drew  a  froth  on  to  his  lips.  He 
wanted  blood  and  tried  to  find  a  word  for  a  dagger. 

Henri  had  not  made  a  move.  "Nothing  but 
money,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  scornful  voice.  "You 
are  viler  than  I  thought.  You  know  that  if  I  had 

been  able  to  speak Wasn't  it  enough  to  leave 

my  child  with  you " 

"But  Claudia  didn't  want  it,"  Harle  snarled,  un- 
heeding. "Ah,  the  dear  child  who  will  avenge  me. 
For  she  is  my  child  now.  Ah!  You  stole  my  wife, 
whom  I  did  not  love.  Well,  how  about  it?  I  am 
taking  your  daughter  whom  you  do  love!  And  I 
will  never  give  her  back.  There  must  be  a  God  for 
this  sweet  revenge!  You  sneaked  up  and  ravished 
the  honour  of  my  house!  And  all  that  remains  of 
your  cursed  house  I  shall  break  up  in  full  daylight. 
There  are  reprisals  for  you!  And  I  did  it  without 
knowing  it,  by  a  miracle  of  Providence!  The  power 
of  work  is  so  great  that  it  restores  everything,  with- 
out our  knowing  it,  or  talking  about  it.  How  happy 
I  would  have  been  to  take  my  revenge  twenty  years 
ago,  hi  every  hour  of  my  honesty,  in  every  hour  of 
your  infamous  life!  I  thought  it  was  ambition;  but 
it  was  revenge!  And  now  all  the  pleasures  I  missed 
are  giving  me  an  immense  joy!  You  stole  my  money 


THE  STRONGEST  313 

and  my  money  is  stealing  your  child.  It  gave  her 
another  soul:  a  better  soul,  which  repudiates  you. 
Go,  go  tell  her  you  are  her  father,  if  you  can — without 
dying  of  shame  at  her  feet.  Open  your  arms  to  her, 
ask  her  to  come  back  to  you!  She  will  not  believe 
you!  She  will  drive  you  off  as  I  am  about  to  drive 
you  out  of  this  house.  And  do  you  know  why?  Be- 
cause she  would  not — could  not — believe  you.  Be- 
cause I  have  made  the  child  of  my  millions  out  of 
your  child.  And  she  could  no  more  separate  herself 
from  those  millions  than  could  the  millions  separate 
themselves  from  her!  The  daughter  of  your  crime 
has  become  the  daughter  of  my  gold!  She  needs  me, 
not  you,  for  her  life — the  life  that  I  prepared  in  spite 
of  you.  Now,  go.  Go  back  to  your  shame,  philoso- 
pher; back  to  the  ruined  witnesses  of  your  shame. 
I  am  driving  you  out.  Go!" 

"No,"  retorted  Henri,  very  quietly.  "It  is  not 
yet  time.  Let  the  mud  of  your  soul  fall  back  on  you. 
I  know  my  faults.  They  are  grave.  I  have  been 
punished  for  them  by  the  life  I  have  endured.  But 
there  is  someone  whom  I  must  speak  of  before  you." 

"My  wife?  I  admire  you.  You  haven't  a  spark 
of  shame  left.  You  dare  to  judge  between  her  and 
me!  You,  the  criminal,  judging  me,  the  victim  of 
the  crime!  And  through  her,  your  accomplice,  a 
wretched " 

The  insult  was  not  spoken.  Like  a  wild  beast, 
mad  with  blood,  Puymaufray  leaped  upon  Harle 


314  THE  STRONGEST 

with  a  roar.  If  Dominic  had  not  retreated  he  would 
have  been  killed.  All  that  Henri  realized  was  the 
need  to  murder  before  the  outrage  was  given  words. 
He  was  like  a  man  in  the  agony  of  death,  and 
Harle  recoiled. 

"You  are  afraid,"  said  Henri,  mastering  himself. 
"Good.  Now  listen  to  me.  Be  silent,  for  I  have 
sworn  that  I  will  kill  you  if  you  open  your  lips. 
There  is  only  one  thief  here  and  it  is  you.  You 
stole  the  spirit  of  Claire,  whose  name  I  forbid  you 
to  speak  again.  Yes;  her  soul,  her  youth,  her  can- 
dour, her  beauty,  in  addition  to  her  money,  which 
you  coveted — you  stole  all  these  for  the  protection 
you  swore  to  give  them.  And  when  you  failed  to 
find  the  few  francs  which  you  had  expected,  you 
made  yourself  the  executioner  of  her  soul.  You  re- 
venged yourself,  with  all  your  futile  vileness,  on  the 
innocent.  You  took  pleasure  in  torturing  her,  and 
now  you  are  surprised  that  when  the  avenger  came 
your  victim  was  taken  from  you.  What  I  took  from 
you  was  not  your  property — never  had  been.  You 
must  know  that!  A  woman  gives  herself.  I  must 
tell  it  to  you.  A  transaction  in  money  has  no  hold 
over  her!  What  do  you  care?  You  followed  your 
dream  of  money  for  money's  sake,  crushing  the 
weak,  and  giving  as  your  only  reason  the  fact  that 
you  were  the  strongest.  Well,  it  is  not  true.  You 
are  the  weakest,  you  fool — the  smallest,  nothing. 
I  tell  it  to  you  in  the  hour  of  your  triumph.  From  to- 


THE  STRONGEST  315 

day  you  will  fall.  We  are  all  avengers,  one  against 
the  other.  I  am  through  with  the  long  sufferings 
of  my  expiation.  Thanks  to  you  I  find  myself 
again.  I  was  powerless  in  the  battle — hesitating, 
afraid.  I  wanted,  at  all  cost,  to  save  Claudia. 
And  now  I  am  standing  before  you — you  who  call 
yourself  the  conqueror  and  me  the  conquered — 
and  I  say:  'You  have  still  to  pay  for  your  victory. 
You  are  marrying  the  Comtesse  de  Fourchamps. 
If  I  were  low  enough,  what  worse  thing  could  I 
dream  for  my  revenge?  You  are  stealing  Claudia, 
and  you  boast  of  it.  Haven't  I  told  you  that  she 
is  my  daughter  and  Claire's  daughter?  Our  blood 
will  reassert  itself,  be  well  assured.  I  leave  her  in 
your  hands  because  in  her  madness  she  desires  it. 
She  wants  it,  but  she  is  unhappy  already.  She  wept. 
I  heard  the  groans  of  remorse  rising  in  her  heart. 
She  has  set  her  heart  against  me,  against  everyone. 
But  to-morrow,  blessed  suffering  will  bring  her  back 
to  me,  her  father.  I  will  tell  her  everything  then. 
And  I  will  forgive  her  and  shall  be  forgiven.  You 
have  made  me  pity.  Go  on  dragging  out  your  lies 
about  your  gilded  miseries.  I  have  found  out  what 
is  the  greatest  thing  in  life.  I  have  lived  for  love. 
Now  I  will  live  for  forgiveness." 


EPILOGUE 

IN  THE  solitude  of  his  ancient  house,  Henri  de 
Puymaufray  traverses  his  thoughts.  They  are 
thoughts  of  defeat  .  .  .  and  of  victory.  Some 
pride  of  love  gives  this  vanquished  soul  the  brave 
hope  that  there  can  be  no  victory  against  love.  The 
heat  of  the  battle  against  the  master  of  Claire,  who 
became  the  master  of  Claudia,  is  dissipated  in  the 
calm  peace  of  the  soil.  Now  that  Claudia  is  far 
away,  Claire  has  returned,  Claire  who  by  her  own 
strength  will  bring  Claudia  back  in  time.  Life, 
through  suffering,  will  bring  Claudia  back  to 
love. 

Weakened  by  the  struggle,  he  gained  strength  to 
meet  contrary  fortune.  Claudia  is  already  on  the 
way  to  forgiveness,  en  route  for  the  great  return  to 
him.  Alas!  the  way  is  long  and  hard,  and  perhaps 
he  will  be  dead  before  the  day.  But  he  will  die  with 
open  arms.  And  even  it  Claudia  is  not  to  return, 
may  she  be  forgiven.  Love  does  not  measure  its 
strength  against  the  weakness  of  the  strongest. 

Spring  has  come.  The  earth  is  reawakened, 
flourishing.  Everything  feels  the  thrill  of  life  and 
bears  blossom  and  bud  and  flower  and  fruit  in  an 

316 


THE  STRONGEST  317 

ecstasy  of  love.  The  earth  sings  itself  in  the  songs  of 
its  birds.  It  is  Paradise  regained. 

At  nightfall  Henri  de  Puymaufray  turns  from  this 
spectacle  of  life  and  dreams  of  his  dead. 

Nanette,  old  now,  is  with  him,  in  perfect  friend- 
ship, no  less  admirable,  perhaps,  than  perfect  love. 

Jean  Quete,  discharged  from  the  factory  because 
he  pleaded  the  cause  of  the  workers,  repudiated  by 
his  companions  for  the  disaster  of  the  strike,  is  on 
his  way  to  Paris.  Before  he  leaves  he  stops  in  at 
the  chateau. 

"Monsieur  Henri,"  says  Jean,  "you  have  come 
back  to  us  with  eyes  which  we  do  not  like.  We  said 
they  would  treat  you  badly  out  there.  The  strong- 
est have  to  tear  their  own  hearts  out  first  in  order  to 
become  the  strongest.  They  will  not  always  be  the 
strongest.  The  weakest  will  avenge  you." 

"My  friend  Jean,"  answered  Henri,  "your  ven- 
geance will  not  waken  me  from  the  sleep  of  death. 
I  am  already  more  avenged  than  need  be.  What 
are  human  disasters,  if  the  goodness  of  the  future  is 
won  by  them?  There  must  be  soldiers  dying  and 
filling  the  trench  before  the  victorious  assault. 
With  wasted  lives  and  in  sorrow,  the  genius  of  living 
humanity  is  created!" 


THE    END 


THE   COUNTRY  LIFE   PRESS 
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